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“JOE, THIS POOR MURDERED WOMAN LYING HERE WAS YOUR MOTHER.*' 

— Slender Clue, p. 352. 




THE LIBRARY OF CHOICE FICTION 


A SLENDER CLUE 


BY 

/ 

LAWRENCE!,,. LYNCH ^ 'i 

Author of “Moiiia; or Against the Mighty,” “Shadowed by Three,” 

“The Lost Witness,” “Madeline Payne,” &c. 


ILLUSTRATED 





CHICAGO 

Laird & Lee, Publishers 
1891 



Copyright 1891 
by 

LAIRD & LEE 

All rights reserved 



• - 

i 




iVr 




^ f. I 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 

1. A Prison Exodus 9 

2. Carnes Receives a Medium 18 

3. A Scholar and a Gentleman 26 

4. The Wheel Begins to Turn 39 

5. A Taste of Aristocracy 44 

6. Besieged by Society 55 

7. His Lucky Morning 64 

8. In Preparation Si 

9. The Lion Roars 95 

10. Barriers Go Down 102 

11. The Lion Tamed 108 

12. Missing » 117 

13. A Touch of Superstition 126 

14. Detective and Client 132 

15. “It Was a Gal” 145 

16. A Bite at the Bait 150 

17. Sowing the W^ind 158 

18. O’Callahan, the Comedian 168 

19. Dismissed 175 

20. Patsy Outgeneraled 18 1 

21. Murder Most Foul 188 

22. At Warham Place 196^ 

23. Within the Maze 206 

24. First Clues. 216 

25. A Bundle of Letters ♦ 227 

26. A Flash of Lightning . 244 

27. Hunter and Hunted 254 

28. Skill vs. Muscle 263 

29. A Strange Confession 272 

30. The Point of View 288 

31. In Consultation 303 

32. How Patsy "Backslid’’...- 315 

33. A Modern Inquisition 324 

34. Chiefs in Council 340 

35. A Study of Characteristics 354 

36. A Tangle 364 

37. Carnes Misses a Clue : 375 

3^ “Sheeny" Moses 389 

39. Found a Victim 395 


40. The Spider and the Fly 40® 

41. Circus Fan "Gets Even” 405 

42. An Embryo Judas 409 

43. A Timely Move 413 

44. The Fly and the Web 419 

45. Resigned to His Fate 426 

46. On the Trail 432 

47. The Letters 440 

48. Death and King Carnival •. 450 

49. Doctor and Detective 455 

50. Foul Play 461 

51. The Evidence of a Detective 466 

52. The Doctor’s Evidence 476 

53. Enlisting an Amateur 481 

54. Puzzling Resemblances 490 

55. A Startling Scientific Truth 496 

56. A New Campaign 504 

57. Mrs. E. Percy Jermyn 512 

58. A Strange Proposal 522 

59. Eureka 527 

60. An Outbreak 538 

61. Link to Link 547 

62. A Meeting of Biographers 553 

63. Three Stories 565 

64. Links ' 571 

65. Nemesis 1 i;;7^ 

66. Face to Face with Her Sin 584 

67. Her Story 389 

68. Her Punishment 609 

69. Unmasked.. 614 

70. Three Tests 621 

71. Himself Again ... . 625 

72. The Last Card 332 

73. Practically Settled 638 

74 - Finis 642 


A SLENDER CLUE 


CHAPTER 1 

A PRISON EXODUS 

At eight o’clock in the morning of a certain bright 
spring day there is more than the usual stir and inter- 
ested activity within the walls of a certain state's peni- 
tentiary. 

Two carriages wait at its gates. One is plain but 
elegant, with -its driver in sober livery sitting erect up- 
on its box, and eying superciliously the other vehicle, 
a showy coupe, and its driver in his dashing trappings 
which, as he very well knows, are not like Kis own, the 
emblems of aristocracy, but merely the trade mark of 
'an up-town livery stable. 

Within the prison two inmates of nearly opposite 
cells are transforming themselves into denizens of the 
outer world — sloughing off their horizontal stripes, and 
donning in their stead, garments fresh from the hands 
of the tailor. 

‘As sure as Pm a ticket-of-leave-man, " says “Number 
43,” holding up between two big brown hands,’ a coat of 
unexceptionable cut and make. “My friends are begin- 
ning to appreciate me! Pll swear nobody ever yet saw 
me in such bang-up togs as these — at least not for some 
time. Well — there’s more than one way of bringing 
your merits before the people. Let’s get into ’em, Cap. 
Pm d3'ing to know how Pll look.” 

9 


10 


A SLENDER CLUE 


‘Number 43” is a tall, muscular fellow of, possibly, 
thirty or thirty-four years, with strongly knit frame, 
broad shoulders, full chest and a careless swinging gait. 
His hands are large, firm, and shapely; his head 
well developed and carried with a careless independence 
in perfect accord with his manner and gait. His features 
are firm, almost to ruggedness, and yet, with his big, 
brown eyes, bright, observant and full of humor, his 
splendid frame and his general air of bonhomie, he would 
be set down anywhere as a good-looking fellow. As he 
buttons his coat about him, fits a soft-hat over his thick, 
close-cropped, brown hair, and turns toward the ,guard 
with an off-hand gesture and the humorous look in his 
big, bright eyes, one would be likely to call him a clever 
fellow as well. 

“How do I look?” he demands, giving the hat a pull 
over his right ear. “Honest, and interesting, and in- 
nocent? That’s it, that’s how I want to look. Wouldn’t 
think I’d just come out of this old jug if you met me 
strolling through the park, would you? Well by-bye; 
take a good look at me, it isn’t at all likely that I shall 
find time to pay you another visit. Don’t weep; give 
this chess suit,’’ kicking the prison garments from be- 
fore him, “and my blessing to my successor. Wonder 
. which he will appreciate most, eh? Well, lead on, Mac- 
duff.’’ 

While “No. 43” is thus making merry, and turning 
jauntily toward his newly acquired liberty, “No. 46,’’ 
in grave silence is also preparing to face the outside 
world. He is a fair-haired man, with pale regular feat- 
ures, dark blue eyes, and small aristocratic hands and 
feet. His movements are slow, and the glance which 
he casts upon each garment, as he silently dons it, is 
disparagingly critical. He has no jest for the guard in 
waiting, no word, in fact; and, as he takes up the hat 


A PRISON EXODUS 


11 


provided for him and silently assures himself that it is' 
not a misfit, there is no hilarity in the action, no haste, 
no undignified desire to be assured that he looks 
"Honest, and interesting, and innocent.” 

Nevertheless he looks wonderfully well, and not at all 
like a criminal. Genteel, intellectual, aristocratic — these 
are the words that would, best apply to him; a trifie 
haughty, too, as with hat in hand, he signifies by a 
gesture his readiness to leave his late habitation. 

Outside of those bare walls he might be taken for a 
student, a theologian — even a poet. 

"No. 43,” whose movements have kept time with his 
flippant tongue, is the first to appear in the -warden’s 
office, where three anxious faces are instantly lifted to 
greet him, while the warden rises from his desk and 
favors him with a broad smile. 

“So,” begins the late prisoner with a short laugh, 
“you’ve had enough of my society, Mr. Warden! You 
mean to turn me out?” 

“Oh Pm willing to keep you,” retorts Warden Crofts. 
“But these gentlemen,” nodding toward the group near 
him, "they want you outside.” 

“No. 43” turns quickly, and meets the gaze of the 
three eager faces with a start and a frown, that ends in 
a smile, as he advances and extends his hand. 

"Ah, Mr. Morton,” he says, "I’m glad to see 3mu;” 
and then his keen eyes rest^inquiringly upon the other 
two faces. 

“My lawyers, our lawyers, Mr. Carnes,” says Mr. Mor- 
ton in answer to the look of inquiry, and still shaking 
the hand of the ex-prisoner, “you know them?” 

“By reputation, very well,” and he turns toward the 
legal gentlemen who rise to take his hand. 

‘Are 3^011 read37 to accompany us?” asks Mr. Morton 
anxiously. 


A SLENDER CLUE 


V2 


“I think so. ” 

‘‘One moment, gentlemen,” intei'poses the wnrden, ‘‘all 
the necessary forms have been complied with, but — 
there is anotlier pris — person who goes out at this hour, 
if I\Ir. Carnes—’’ 

‘‘No. 43” laughs good-humoredly and lounges back 
against the warden’s desk. 

‘‘Mr. Carnes will wait for his fellow prisoner,” he says; 
‘‘we will go out into the free air, supported by each 
other. Thanks for the suggestion, Crofts, you know my 
objection to prison iavors. Who’s the other fellow?” 

‘‘No. 46.” 

‘‘No. 46! ” Carnes arches his eyebrows and whistles a 
low note of astonishment. ” ‘46’! why I’ve walked with my 
hands on his shoulders this many a day. Fine shoulders 
they are, too. Barrin’ a trifle too much slope they were 
just my fit. What has ‘46’ been doing time for?” 

“Oh, the genteel business; trifling with notes and 
bank drafts. He’s a dabster with a pen.” 

‘‘Of course — of course! He’s fine cut from head to 
foot, is ‘46’! Nothing common about////;/. I shall be 
proud to make my exit in such good society.” 

He closes his lips suddenl}', and turns his face toward 
the door. ‘‘No. 46” is entering there with the graceful 
composure of a man who has passed the last ten years 
of his life in making morning calls. 

Without so much as a glance at the other occupants 
of the room he advances toward the warden. 

‘‘Has my carriage arrived,” he asks serenely. 

The warden glances over his shoulder to the attendant 
in the doorway. 

‘‘The carriage for ‘46’,” he says crisply. 

"It is here, sir.” 

As "No. 46” turns with an upward motion of the hand 
holding the glossy hat, his late fellow-prisoner starts 


A PRISON EXODUS 




forward with an ejaculation both sudden and profane. 

‘‘‘46’! Why 1 sayl ‘46/ Pm blessed if I kne\f^ you! 
/bounds man, what would I give for such a complete 
metamorphose 1 B/esseJ, if I knew you! and we'ie going 
eut together, you and 1 ! That’s good, too! Right, left, 
we might take the old step. Don’t you think you will 
feel more natural if we start out in that vva}'? Right 
left,” and he laughs jovially and goes through the pan- 
tomime of the prison march, advancing toward ‘46,’ as if 
to rest his hands upon the sloping, aristocratic shoulders. 

But ”46” draws back haughtily, and favors his late 
comrade with an icy glance. 

‘T have not,” he says in slow, liquid tones, ‘‘nor do I 
desire, the honor of your acquaintance, sir.” 

His tormentor stops his pantomime, to stagger back 
with a dramatic gesture, then turns away with a mock- 
ing laugh. 

“Pm afraid he won’t get on without me,” he whispers 
to the warden in a stage aside, and that official smiles 
and turns toward the door. 

^ 

Ten minutes later and Mr. Morton, the two lawyers 
and the facetious Mr. Carnes are whirling along a 
smooth road, leading cityward, seated comfortably in 
the plain but elegant carriage which is the private prop- 
erty of Mr. Morton; while, not far behind, the dashing 
coupe and its liveried driver followed, with ‘‘No. 46,” 
calm, grave, aristocratic, as its sole occupant. 

When they are some distance away from the, prison, 
”46” leans forward and addresses his driver: 

‘‘Coachman, is there another Avay of reaching the city, 
without too much travel?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

‘‘Then le^tve that carriage ahead, at the first opportu- 
nity, and take another route.” 


u 


A SLANDER CLUt 


"Yes, sir." 

A few moments later, the man Carnes interrupts the 
conversation going on within Mr. Morton’s private car- 
riage, to thrust his head out of a window and look back. 
Tlie coupe is just disappearing down a cross-road. 

"Oh! ’’ he ejaculates, drawing in his head with a jerk, 
“‘46’ declines to follow." 

"You seem uncommonly interested in that gentleman,” 
comments one of the lawyers, glancing sharply at him. 

"Yes, rather," he replies carelessly. "Probably you 
observed that the interest is not mutual?" 

The lawyer favors him with another keen glance. 

"I suppose you understand why it is so one-sided?" he 
hazards. 

"Nothing of the sort, unless I set it down as instinct. 
I never saw ‘No. 46’ until I saw him in prison; I don^t 
even know his name, or the name he chooses to carry. 

I may never see him again, but — I can tell his fortune.” 

"Indeed? " 

"Yes. That man will begin where he left off. He 
can’t keep out of mischief; and some day — he will feel, 
if not my hand, at least one as heavy, upon his shoulder 
again. " 

And with another pantomimic suggestion of the prison 
tread, he turns his face toward Mr. Morton, and then 
checks himself, suddenly dropping his whimsical manner 
and leaning toward that gentleman, to say in a lower 
tone: 

"I see your anxiety in your face, sir. But this is not 
the place for disclosures. I have not been unsuccessful; 
the rest must wait until we have reached the privacy of 
your own library." 

And Rufus Carnes, the skilled detective who for months 
has worn a felon’s garb, and lived a felon’s life, that he 
might be brought into daily contact with a prisoner whose 


A PRISON EXODUS 


15 


secrets it was important that he should know, leans 
back among the carriage cushions, and looks serenely 
out upon the fleeting panorama of field and pasture, while 
Mr. Morton, the man in whose behalf he has made him- 
self a prisoner, fastens two eager eyes upon his face, 
and wishes the drive at an end. 

“I wonder,” says Carnes, suddenly bending forward 
and looking from one face to the other, ‘‘if any of you 
smoke; because if you do, and if you have a cigar — ” 

One of the legal gentlemen promptly produces a well- 
filled cigar-case. 

“Any objections?” Carnes asks this question while 
helping himself to a fine “Havana,” and no objection 
being raised he lights it and puffs away in silence for a 
time. Then, taking the weed from between his lips, he 
breaths a huge sigh of satisfaction and sa3's: “A good 
cigar is one of the very few things that a man canH live 
without, and live contentedly. I never knew it before. 
It fills a nameless longing that I have felt for the past 
three months. I wonder if my elegant neighbor, 'No. 46’, 
can appreciate a good cigar?” 

If one might judge the thoughts of “No. 46“ by the ex- 
pression of his face as he bowls along the by-way taken 
by his obliging, and well-informed driver, he is not 
thinking of a cigar; nor is his soul troubled b}^ any 
“nameless longing,” as he leans back upon the cushions 
of the coupe, closing his eyes in dreamy meditation, 
enjoying to the full the luxurious sway of the light-roll- 
ing vehicle, the freshness of the morning air, the chirp- 
ing of robins, the odor of freshly tilled earth, the bud- 
ding, growing, greenness of a sunny April day. 

On leaving the highway he has lowered the windows^ 
of the coupe and now, after ten minutes of silent enjoy- 
ment, he leans out and addresses the driver. 


10 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“When does the first train leave for Chicago?" he asks 
slowly. 

“Two fifteen, sir," the man replies without turning his 
head. 

“Ah! you have the time?" 

The driver consults a shabb}^, silver time-piece. 

“Ten thirty-seven, sir,” he says promptly; then chir- 
rups to his horses. 

“Thank you! There is no need of haste — drive slowly 
please. " 

The horses are reined to a slower pace, and as “Num- 
ber 46" gazes about him, first on one side then on the 
other, he murmurs half-aloud: 

"Ah, nature! even thy everyday. face is beautiful to 
the man who for nearly ten years has seen only bare 
walls, and smoke-obscured sky. Ten lost years! Ten 
stolen years that, in some form, I must wrest back from 
the hand of Fate!" 

He sighs softly, then smiles, as his observant eye 
notes a pretty contest between two robins, that wrestle 
vigorously for the possession of a worm, by the road-side. 

It is nearly noon when the coupe draws up before the 
door of a flourishing banking house, and its occupant 
slowly descends, and, bidding his driver wait, walks up 
the steps and in through the heavy swinging door. 

Someone is at the cashier’s window, and he leans against 
the desk nearest at hand, and flecks a few particles of 
dust from his coat sleeve while he waits, scarcely glanc- 
ing to right or left, although ten years change has been 
wrought about him. 

As the person before him leaves the window, “No. 46" 
moves forward and drawing to him one of the blanks 
lying upon the narrow desk, writes a name upon it in a 
graceful, careless hand, and pushing it toward the cash- 
ier, says: 


A PRISON EXODUS 


17 


“You have received my notification no doubt?” 

The cashier favors him with a sharp, swift glance, 
then drops his eyes to the signature upon the blank check 
before him, lifting them again to bestow upon the 
author a second look, full of mingled interest and curios- 
ity, and so long, that “No. 46” who is indifferently scan- 
ning a unique calendar just before him, makes a restless 
movement and meets his eyes with a look of haughty 
inquiry. 

With the shadow of a smile crossing his face, the 
cashier turns to his books and “No. 46” resumes his scru- 
tiny of the calendar, with calm, unruffled countenance. 

There is a brief consultation behind the desk of the 
cashier and that functionary appears again at the win- 
dow. 

“You wish a full statement, Mr. Poinsett?” he says, 
courteously. 

"Yes.” 

“It is ready.” 

Mr. Poinsett takes the slip of paper that comes slid- 
ing across the desk, glances at it carelessly, and says: 

“Yes? No doubt it is correct. I stated that I would 
draw my balance to-day.” 

“It is ready. Ten thousand, two hundred and sixty 
dollars.” 

“Ten thousand in a draft upon Chicago, please. The 
rest in cash.” 

It is done. Oh the potency of a bank-cashier! the 
genie of our nineteenth century! “Number 46, ” late the 
ticket-of-leave man, re-enters his coupe, “No.46“ no longer. 

Rechristened, rehabilitated, by the genie of the age— 
Mr. Poinsett, with a purse and a pedigree. 


A Slender Clue 2 


CHAPTER II 


IN WHICH CARNES RECEIVES A “MEDIUM" 

Mr. Morton, the anxious patron of the detective Rufus 
Carnes, lived in a suburban town, a morning’s drive from 
Chicago, and it was to his fine residence that his party 
drove after leaving the penitentiary and its precincts. 

Rufus Carnes had been employed to investigate a 
case of bank burglary and the course of his investiga- 
tions had landed him for a longer time than he found 
enjoyable, within the walls of the penitentiary. His 
time however had not been given to the State in vain; 
and he had emerged holding in his hands the clues which 
promised to bring the mystery surrounding the rob- 
bery, to a speedy conclusion and expose. 

He remained all night under the roof of his patron, 
and sat until a very late hour in consultation with the 
two lawyers; and when, on the following morning, he 
stepped on board a train going cityward, he heaved a 
sigh of relief, shook the burden of business from his 
shoulders, lighted a prime cigar and settled down to a 
comfortable perusal of the morning papers. 

He smoked and read in placid content until the train 
steamed into the city station, and then he stepped 
briskly through the crowd like a man who knows his 
way and sees nothing strange, walking hurriedly through 
the station and out upon the street. But not unobserved, 
for a young man with a slovenly gait, and wearing the 
dress of a laborer, who had been languidly watching the 
unloading of a quantity of baggage, seemed startled into 

r. 


IN JVHICH CARNES RECEIVES A ^^MEDIUM ” 


19 


new activity as the hurrying form crossed his line of 
vision, and when Carnes emerged from the crowd, the 
laborer was close at his heels. 

When he stepped across the pavement and addressed 
a hackman, who ceased his bawling to listen, the laborer 
was near enough to hear him say: 

"Drive ahead about two blocks and wait for me; Pll 
be with you in three minutes.” Then he turned and 
re-entered the station. 

"He’s going to send a telegram," muttered the la- 
borer, noting the direction taken by Carnes. "I— see." 

He turned abruptly, crossed the street to where an 
express wagon stood, and addressed its driver: 

"Hallo Charlie! are you up to anything?” 

"Nothing important; want me?” 

"Yes; 3^ou see that carriage just turning out there?" 

"Yes, I see it. ” 

"I want you to follow it, that’s all,” and he stepped 
nimbly over the wheel and seated himself beside the 
driver, 

"Wait till you see a man come out from the door next 
the telegraph office,” he said hurriedly, “a big fellow 
with a swing to his gait, smooth face, gray clothes. 
He will get into that carriage a block or two down. See 
where he stops; he will go to a hotel or lodgings — then 
come back and tell me. I must get back to my bag- 
gage.” 

He leaped to the ground and crossed the street just 
as Carnes reappeared from the station and went rapidly 
toward the waiting hack. 

An hour later Rufus Carnes was seated before a comfort- 
able fire in his room in a snug but unfashionable hotel, 
smoking tranquilly, and bending forward at intervals to 
add a touch to something outlined in pencil upon a 
sheet of paper that lay upon the table before him, when 


20 


A SLENDER CLUE 


there came a hesitating tap upon his door which he an- 
swered with a prompt and cheery “Come in.” 

But a change marred the serenity of his countenance 
when his eyes rested upon the person who entered with 
hesitating steps and a series of bows. 

“Umph!" ejaculated Carnes, and then as the stranger 
closd the door cautiously, he leaned back in his chair 
and surveyed him at length. 

“Well!” he finally exclaimed as after a moment of 
hesitation his visitor began a silent slow approach. “An’ 
fwhat the divel do you want?” 

The stranger, a seedy-looking man, wearing his hair 
in long straggling locks and his whiskers to match, lift- 
ed one hand, encased in a tattered glove, caressed the 
straggling whiskers and tilted the glasses that rested 
too low upon his nose. 

“My name,” he began in a melancholy tone, “is Ebe- 
nezer Bates." 

“Nate name,” commented Mr. Carnes. 

“Pm a Medium,” pursued Mr. Bates with an accession 
of dignity. 

“Yes, a Mejium!” Mr. Carnes came slowly to his feet. 
“So’m 2 a Mejium, Misther Bates. Did ye come to^ave 
yer fortune towld?” 

“You scoff,” sighed Mr. Ebenezer Bates. “You doubt 
me,” and he laid his hat softly, tenderly upon the table. 
“Listen: I come to ask a favor.” 

“Oh! did yee’s?” Mr. Carnes grew emphatic and his 
suddenly acquired dialect became broader. 

“My friend,” Mr. Bates lowered his voice to a mys- 
terious whisper — “you have just regained your liberty.” 

”What!” Carnes made a hasty stride forward. 

“Yesterday you were a convict.” Mr. Bates retreated 
as far as his host had advanced. 

Carnes became suddenly calm and stood quite still. 


IN IVHICH CARNES RECEIVES A MEDIUM^' 


81 


“You were known in prison as "No 43’.” 

A sudden fire leaped into the eyes of the detective, 
his lips met, forming a straight line. With one stride 
he had reached the door and stood with his back against it. 

“My friend!” he said sternly, “ye’ve made a few re- 
marks for yer own divarsion, now ye may do a little 
spache-makin’ fer moine.” 

“As much as you like, sir;” the visitor seated himself 
coolly in his host’s lately vacated easy-chair, and bent 
his head to examine the sketch upon the table with evi 
dent interest. 

“By 1” thundered Carnes in a sudden rage at his 

effronter}^, "who are you, sir?" 

Then a burst of boyish laughter fell upon his aston- 
ished ears; the straggling locks of Mr. Bates came fly- 
ing about his head, and a handsome, laughing face 
looked into his own. Carnes gasped with amazement, 
and dropped weakly into the nearest chair, then sud- 
denly sprang up again and seized what remained of Mr. 
Bates in a bear-like embrace. 

“Oh you reprobate! where did you hail from?” he ex- 
claimed; “and what do you mean by coming in upon me 
in this fashion.” 

The young fellow laughed and seized both his hands 
in a hearty grasp. 

“Carnes, old man. I’m glad to see you," he said, “and 
I couldn’t resist the temptation to stir up your Irish a 
little. You see,” settling' back comfortably in his chair 
once more, “I’m trying to keep myself out of sight here 
and so did not like to call in propria persona. I’m doing 
a little business in the city.” 

Carries drew up a chair so close to his friend that 
their knees almost touched. 

“And how did you happen to spot me, Dick?” he 
asked. 


oo 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Saw you come in while I was spotting baggage.” 

"Spotting baggage, eh?" 

"Yes, it’s a little out of my line, but there have been 
some queer trunk robberies and I’m anxious to learn the 
game. I had forgotten your case almost. Is it fin- 
ished ?” 

"My share in it is, I hope." 

"And you succeeded?" 

"Oh yes; but tell me about 3^ourself, boy." 

"Oh there’s nothing to tell. I’ve been here and there. 
Nothing noteworthy since the Frisco case. What have 
you got here, Carnes?" he took up the unfinished pencil 
drawing and eyed it inquiringly. 

Carnes laughed and stretched out his hand for the 
picture. 

"Oh that’s one of my whims, " he said; "it’s meant for 
a sketch of a fellow-prisoner — a chap who walked before 
me in the ranks, ‘No. 46’." 

"‘No. 46’, eh! Looks like an unfinished saint." 

"An unfinished saint," repeated Carnes reflectively. 
"There’s the rub. It’s your unfinished saints that give us 
the greatest amount of trouble on this planet. A finished 
saint, one fully rounded with all the gaping possibili- 
ties filled up, might get on here, just one of him, but 
these fellows — now look at him!" 

Carnes drew his chair up to the table and seized his 
pencil, making rapid strokes while he talked. “How is 
that for a countenance, refined, cultivated? there’s 
a fastidious man — a man who is above common 
vulgarity, a thinker, a student; why the man carried 
an air of distinction even in his horizontal stripes — and 
yet— he has been in the penitentiary — and you and I 
know that saints, the genuine full-fledged article, are 
not in demand there." 

"True,” replied the other, giving to his friend’s 


IN IVHICH CARNES RECEiyES A ''MEDIUM** 23 

whimsical statement a more literal rendering." The 
innocent man, the sensationalists to the contrary 
notwithstanding, is not often convicted, although 
he is many times accused. You seem to have taken a 
special interest in this man, Carnes; what do you know 
of him?" 

"Nothing," replied Carnes slowly as if in self-wonder 
ment, "simply nothing." 

"Not his name?" 

"No." 

"His crime?" 

"Forgery, note raising, something of that sort." 

"And you have brought away with you this vivid re- 
minder of an unknown convict?" 

"1 think," said Carnes, "that if I had left him behind, 
I should not have remembered him, but he is at large; 
we left on the same day, at the same moment; he in 
one carriage, I in another." 

"Oh!" ejaculated young Stanhope, drawing the sketch 
toward him across the table. 

"Burrowing so long among mysteries," went on Carnes 
musingly, "a man gets to indulging in strange fancies, 
in his moments of leisure. When I telegraphed for in- 
structions an hour or so ago, I sort of turned myself 
loose, with nothing to do but entertain my own va- 
garies, and, confound it! I could do nothing but ‘won- 
der how that man would employ himself now that he 
is his own master.^ There let’s drop him, boy. The 
fellow begins to annoy me." 

But the younger man bent his head again over the 
outlined face. 

"You know I have my own theory about faces," he 
said slowly. 

"Sure, an’ I niver knew yee’s to have onyone else’s 
theory for onything," blurted out Carnes, returning sud- 


24 


A SLENDER CLUE 


denly to his brogue after a fashion peculiar to himself, 
for he numbered among his whims that of more than 
half believing himself an Irishman. 

"Every face has its possibilities,” went on Stanhope, 
"and the language of the human countenance is the most 
difficult of all languages. But it ca?i be mastered — in a 
life-time.” 

"Umph! I thought you professed to know it.” 

"I? I am only in the primer! I can read words of 
one syllable; faces that carry their trade-mark upon 
them, that are in the rough. Now you and I work 
sometimes, upon a shadow of proof, and there are men 
whom to suspect, would, in our judgment, amount to 
moral proof. We read their guilt, or their capacity for 
ill-doing, in their countenances — read it at first glance. 
But this man,” tapping the picture with a slim forefin- 
ger, "I would study well before I ventured an opinion.” 

“Suppose,” said Carnes, leaning forward — "suppose 
that this chap was accused or suspected of a crime and 
that the strongest proof against him was an insufficient 
bit of circumstantial evidence together with the fact 
that he was an ex-convict. How would you operate the 
case, Mr. Theorist?” 

"I would begin by studying my man, not to convince 
myself of his guilt but of his capability for guilt. I 
would if possible associate myself with him intimately, 
for days, weeks, months; see him in all his phases, learn 
to know his face, his voice, his tricks of speech and ex- 
pression. It’s the only way to succeed with these cultured 
rogues. You can’t deal with them in the ordinary way.” 

"Then you think that in six months you could gauge 
this man’s capabilities, given the necessary close contact? ” 

"I believe that I could,” said Stanhope firmly. 

He laid the sketch down upon the table, then took it 
up again. 


IN IVHICH CARNES RECEIl^ES A ^^MEDIUM 


25 


“You don’t need this sketch to aid your memory?" he 
asked smilingly. 

“Not L" 

“Then,” and he took out his pocket-book and stowed 
the paper carefully within, “Pll add it to my rogue’s 
gallery; you can supply yourself with another, Carnes." 

“I don’t need one," said Carnes confidently; “I re- 
member faces as well as you analyze them, boy.” 

No more was said of “No. 46.” The two men were 
friends of years’ standing — detectives in the same serv- 
ice, who had not met for many months. 

Rufus Carnes was esteemed as one of the most reliable 
men of his force; strong, brave, shrewd and eccentric, 
and Richard Stanhope, a younger man by half a score of 
years, was rapidly gaining for himself a reputation as a 
most skillful detective, keen-witted, energetic, seeming 
to possess a genius for his profession; always self-reli- 
ant and original in his methods, a splendid mimic, and 
with a skill in disguise that was a wonder to all. 

“So you have taken to piping baggage,” queried Mr. 
Carnes, after some desultory talk. 

“Yes. You wouldn’t say there could be a piquancy 
in it, but there is.” 

“Umph! where?” 

“I once thought that a trunk was a trunk, and nothing 
more, but there are trunks and trunks — they have an in- 
dividuality. I can point out the difference between 
two trunks, that a casual observer would pronounce just 
alike, at a glance, and when in my future wanderings I 
chance to meet one of the trunks that have passed under 
my eye in this city, I shall recognize it as an old ac- 
quaintance, I shall recognize them everyone.” 

“Dick,” said Carnes with much solemnity, “I’m afraid 
the physiognomy of things will unsettle you yet.” 


CHAPTER III 


A SCHOLAR AND A GENTLEMAN 

It was early dusk when Mr. Poinsett arrived in Chicago 
and took a carriage to the Palmer House. 

During the short drive he peered curiously out through 
the carriage window, like a man who looks for the first 
time upon the scene before him, but on reaching the 
hotel he sauntered into the office with an air of careless 
indifference and scarcely deigned to glance at the some- 
what too gorgeous surroundings. 

There was a chill in the evening air, and he shivered 
slightly as he advanced to the desk and took up a pen. 

"A good room, with a fire,” he said to the beaming 
gentleman behind the register, and then he bent his head 
and wrote in a rapid graceful hand: 

" E. P. Edwards, Cincinnati, O. " 

"In half an hour,” he said slowly, as he laid aside the* 
pen, "serve dinner in my room.” 

A small portmanteau had awaited him at the station 
at J — and had been checked through as being too bur- 
densome for his well-gloved hand, and giving orders con- 
cerning the prompt delivery of this, he followed the 
servant who waited to conduct him to his room. 

Once there he called for the daily papers, which he 
perused until the arrival of dinner, to which he did full 
but fastidious justice, and turned again to the newspa- 
pers. 

After two hours passed in scanning numerous columns, 
he threw down the evening journal with a profound sigh. 

26 


A SCHOLAR AND A GENTLEMAN 


27 


"I can make nothing of them,” he murmured. "I have 
lost the key to every situation, political, religious, social 
— everything. I have lost ten years and I must lose 
more time while I coach myself for a new start in life. 
Let me consider: It is April now, May, June, July! I 
must give myself two months if not three, in which to 
learn all that has happened in the world since I turned 
my back, very unwillingly, upon it. Ah, Madame Justice 
has given me ten years in which to consider what I 
would do at the end of that time. At least my thinking 
is done; I have now only to prepare for action.” 

As the next step in his career of "action,” he gathered 
the scattered papers into an orderly pile, and then 
entered his bathroom. "Cleanliness,” he murmured, 
"is next to godliness. Luxurious cleanliness is a hint of 
Paradise.” 

Having cleansed himself of the last atom of prison 
contact, he came forth from the bath in a glow of con- 
tent, bestowed himself in such a bed as he had been 
long a stranger to, and fell asleep, like a man who has, 
indeed, nothing to think of. 

His first act of the morning, after disposing of a break- 
fast dainty yet sufficient, is to call for a carriage and 
drive to the nearest fashionable tailor’s, where he makes 
such additions to his hitherto limited wardrobe, as a 
gentleman too gentlemanly to descend to dandyism may 
need for a summer’s campaign. Thence to the bank upon 
which his draft for ten thousand dollars is drawn, and 
then he makes a round of the newspaper offices, book- 
stores, news-stands — an eccentric round, his coachman 
thinks— but they keep on, lunching at a restaurant, and 
then recommencing their quest. 

All day long packages for "E. P. Edwards” arrive at 
his hotel and accumulate in the room assigned to "Num- 
ber 46” and when he returns, somewhat fatigued after his 
day’s labor, he finds the place literally occupied. 


28 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Packages everywhere, on tables, on chairs, on the 
floor; he glances at them with a weary smile, and pushes 
a huge bundle from the easiest chair, into which he sinks 
with a sigh of mingled weariness and satisfaction. 

“It is not so complete as I could wish,” he solilo- 
quizes; “but I think when the New York orders are filled, 
that it will suffice. To-morrow I will purchase trunks 
to contain my collection, and then — ho, for the country, 
to absorb in a few weeks the history of the events that 
have marked the passage of the last ten years.” 

For those packets and bundles, large and small, con- 
tained newspapers file upon file, books, pamphlets, 
periodicals, dating back two, three, five, ten years; such 
as could not be obtained in the city had been ordered 
from New York, and during the week that followed, they 
poured in upon him books and standard magazines, an 
avalanche of information, that would have appalled most 
men, but at which he smiled, and set himself to the 
task of classifying and arranging according to date, so 
that the oldest might come first to his hand when the 
mammoth trunks into which they were crowded should 
be opened for this strange student of modern history. 

And it was not only a collection of news, letters, and 
records of current events that he proposed to master; there 
were novels, poems, essays, critiques, works of biogra- 
phy, the cream of the literature of the past half-score of 
years. 

As his eye rested upon some of these a shadow crossed 
his usually placid face. 

“Oh! ” he muttered, “what a loss 1 have suffered at 
the hands of mine enemies! I, who hoped so much, 
who might have been — but pshaw, it is over, and I have 
the world before me once more; money in my purse and 
enough here,” tapping his forehead lightly, “to do the 
rest. ” 


A SCHOLAR AND A GENTLEMAN 


29 


He arose, went to a mirror on the opposite side of the 
room, and there surveyed his image with a critical eye. 

“I might pass for twenty-five,” he murmured. "Ten 
years have not aged me,” and he continued to gaze with 
growing satisfaction at the image of the fair-faced 
scholarly-looking man that his mirror presented. 

The fair face was as smooth as a girl’s, and the close- 
cropped hair, though not quite in keeping with his gen- 
eral appearance, was soft and thick, and so purely blonde 
that it added to the youthfulness of his appearance. 

“What a man is, you may guess from his habits,” some- 
one has said. During the two weeks that he remained 
in the cit3%“Mr. Edward’s” habits were above criticism. 

Reading the morning papers in the spacious office, 
replying with courteous reserve to the advances made by 
various genial habitues^ unobtrusive, yet dignified, he 
won for himself admiration and respect. He smoked no 
cigars, not, as he explained to one of his respectful 
admirers, because of any scruples, but because he dis- 
liked the weed. He drank an occasional glass of wine, 
but shunned conviviality, believing, so he said, with a 
smile, that "a man should use wine as a beverage, not 
as a habit.” 

He disdained or ignored the theaters where sensation 
and novelty prevailed, on the ground that such catered 
to man’s lower instincts; but he might have been seen 
once or twice, in a proscenium box, in company with 
two or three other gentlemen, applauding the scholarly 
interpretations of an eminent tragedian. 

When he left the city, he bade a courteous farewell to 
the few who had made his acquaintance, and left in the 
minds of all, a most flattering impression. 

“I am going into the country,” he explained with one 
of his quiet smiles; “it is especially attractive to me at 
this season of the year. I have a whim for botanizing. 


30 


A SLENDER CLUE 


and a pronounced taste for geology — and then,’* smiling 
again as if half in derision of his own bookish propensi- 
ties, “I like the quiet of the country." 

When he had gone, some of them remembered that he 
had not named his destination. 

It was evening when "No. 46" arrived at Roseville, a 
pretty village in the heart of green Illinois. 

The place possessed a country hotel which was a model 
of its kind, and here he determined to establish himself. 
He had heard of Roseville and its simple attractions 
through a talkative commercial traveler, and had vent- 
ured thither solely upon these recommendations. 

He found the Roseville House all that it had been 
painted, and at once opened negotiations with the "land- 
lord," at the end of which he found himself in posses- 
sion of two comfortable rooms; light, well-ventilated, 
and furnished with the traditional rag carpet of our 
grandmothers, with all the corresponding accompani- 
ments, while mine host on his part was able to tell his 
wife, his neighbors and his guests, that the new boarder 
was a Mr. E. F. Jermytiy of New Orleans, who had come 
North for his health and for a respite from business, 
and who had chanced to come to Roseville through hav- 
ing read the recommendation given the town by the lit- 
erary fisherman of the party, whose visit to its groves 
and streams was now a public rerniniscence, special 
property of the Rosevillians. 

"And is that all you know about him?" sniffed the wife 
of mine host, giVing the vinegar cruet an emphatic 
shake, as the\’ discussed things over a late dinner: "you 
might a^ found that out by looking at his baggage. His 
name and where he come from! Pm goin^ to know some- 
thing more than thaty before he's been in my house an- 
other night." 













A SCHOLAR AND A GENTLEMAN 


31 


And she did. 

Qn the second morning of his stay at the Roseville 
House, while Mr. Jermyn, as he had chosen to call him- 
self, having abstracted a file of newspapers from the 
one trunk which he had thought it wise to bring with 
him, was preparing himself for a morning^ s reading, the 
door of his sitting-room opened unceremoniously, and a 
thin-visaged elderly female, armed with a broom and a 
dusty rag, entered hastily. 

“A nice morning, sir," she began briskly, with no 
shade of hesitation or fear of intrusion in voice or man- 
ner. 

Mr. Jermyn raised his head and surveyed her with a 
glance of dreamy speculation. Then a remembrance of 
that sharp visage opposite mine host at breakfast crossed 
his mind and he said courteously: 

"Good morning, madam — Mrs. — " 

"Mrs. Brace," interpolated his visitor; "I thought you 
might want me to see after your room and things a bit — " 

Mr. Jermyn roused himself. 

"My room is in your hands, Mrs. Brace," he said; 
"but my belongings — that is to say, my articles of the 
toilet and wardrobe, and my books, papers, etc., I pre- 
fer to arrange myself. You will please instruct the 
chambermaid." 

He nodded slightly and turned again to his file of 
papers But Mrs. Brace retained her position near the 
center of the room and gave the dusty rag a little defi- 
ant flap while she renewed the attack. 

"That's why I thought you rfiight want me to look 
after your rooms myself. Bachelors are particular I 
know— that \s— I s* pose you ain't a married man, Mr. 
Jerming? " 

"I am so unfortunate, Mrs. Brace." 

"Oh, you mayn't be so very unfortunate neither ; Rose- 

3 


32 


A SLENDER CLUE 


ville is running over with pretty girls, not to mention a 
good sprinklin’ of old maids, but lal I don’t -pose jyou 
come here to find a sweetheart!” 

Mr. Jermyn turned over a paper and looked at it 
gravely. 

“Ye seem pretty well supplied with books, Mr. Jer- 
ming,” recommenced Mrs. Brace, elevating her broom to 
demolish an invisible cobweb. “Excuse my askin’, but 
ain’t you a minister — a — of some sort?” 

Mr. Jermyn laid aside the file, of papers and turned 
toward his questioner like a man resolved to face the 
inevitable. 

“No,” he said smiling slightly, “I am not a minister 
— of any sort.” 

Mrs. Brace dropped her broom to the floor and lean- 
ing upon it, looked at him with a speculative eye. 

“You’ve got just the look for a minister,” she said, 
“or a school professor, or the like.” 

“I’m a student, Mrs Brace, simply that. I’ve a talent 
for investigating things; I hope to find much that is in- 
teresting in your village." 

Mrs. Brace sat down upon the nearest chair, and 
smiled her approval of this candor. In her opinion the 
conversation had reached a confidential footing. 

“I hope you won’t get dull here,” she said fervently.’ 
“I s’ pose ye have a family, brothers and sisters, maybe?” 

“My relatives are all in England.” 

“My! Then you’re an Englishman?” 

“Yes, madam.” 

She drew a quick breath and renewed the attack with 
eagerness. 

“I s’ pose then you’re only over here to see the coun- 
try? ” 

He smiled slightly. “I have been here for fifteen 
years,” he said. 


A SCHOLAR AND A GENTLEMAN 


33 


“Mercy! Now, how ever came you to come over here 
all b}" yourself, and so young as you must hev been?" 

"Many young men come here from the other side, 
madam, because of the superior advantages a young 
man who wishes to make a career for himself, finds here." 

Mrs. Brace ruminated a little over this sentence, then — 

“So you came over here to settle?" she hazarded. 

“I came to see the country — but remained — " he 
passed one slender hand across his face to conceal the 
smile that flitted over it, “because, really, I couldn’t get 
away. " 

“So you like America?" 

“Vastly.” 

“Most all emigrants does;" her victim seemed sud- 
denly shaken with an inward convulsion. “So I s’pose 
now, you intend to settle here and be one of us?" 

“Possibly. " 

“You must begin to feel quite at home here?" 

“Oh, quite like an old resident." Mr. Jermyn arose 
and looked out of the window; Mrs. Brace arose too, 
and began moving the furniture about, preparatory to 
sweeping. 

“Well, Mr. Jerming, ” she sighed, “I hope you’ll like 
Roseville; it’s a very sociable place, and you’ll find it 
easy to git acquainted." 

“I have not a doubt of it. However I came to Rose- 
ville for quiet and to study, rather than to enter into 
society, although, of course — " 

Mrs. Brace had paused, broom in hand and she now 
interrupted him. 

“If you won’t think me inquisitive, Mr. Jerming, I 
should like to know what you are studying to be?" 

Ideas were quickly suggested to Mr. Jermyn, and he 
was not slow to act upon them. He turned now to Mrs. 
Brace with a look of truthful frankness in his blue eyes. 


34 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Your interest in a stranger like myself, madam, must 
surely be prompted by your kindness of heart, aud I am 
grateful for it. I am not given to talking of my per- 
sonal affairs, but will say to you, that which might not 
interest others. Most Englishmen, as you may know, 
have a prejudice against America as a habitation. I 
find this country to my liking and I remain here against 
the wishes of some of my friends. I came here, as I 
have said, for quiet, and to write some scientific articles 
for future publication." He crossed the room to turn 
the key in the lock of the huge trunk, remove it, and 
convey it to his pocket. Then he asked, as he took up 
his hat, "Do you give the rooms of your guests your 
personal care, Mrs. Brace?" 

"I will look after your rooms myself,” she answered 
quickly; "I thought you might prefer to have me." 

"By all means, thank you." 

He bowed affably, donned his hat as he crossed the 
door-sill, and went slowly down the old-fashioned steep 
stairs, leaving Mrs. Brace in full possession. 

If one could have held a mirror up to the mind of 
Mr. Jermyn aS he passed out from the house he might 
have read these words reflected there: 

“For the mending of fools it is foolish to wait, 

Fools will be fools as certain as fate. 

Sons of wisdom, make them your toolsl 
That, only that, is the use of fools.” 

A bright picturesque river ran straight through Rose- 
ville, and Mr. Jermyn turned away from the hotel and 
directed his steps river-ward. 

As he passed a long low building in a fresh coat of 
paint and bearing upon its front the words Printing 
Office, he heard through the half-open door a trill of 
merry laughter and then a young girl appeared so sud- 
denly through the doorway that she had all the effect of 
coming from within at a bound. 


A SCHOLAR AND A GENTLEMAN 


35 


She carried in her hands a number of newspapers en- 
cased in brown wrappers and ready for the mail, and her 
eyes rested upon him for just an instant in an una- 
bashed impersonal way that was not a stare, and scarce 
long enough to be called a look. 

She might have looked just so at a handsome horse 
passing before her, only she would have looked longer 
and with growing admiration. 

She flitted swiftly on before him until they reached 
the postoffice, which she entered, and Mr. Jermyn, saunter- 
ing a little in the rear, smiled to note that she did not 
turn her head to favor him with another glance. 

“I wish she had,” he said to himself in answer to his 
thought; ".she has a fine face, a sweet voice, and a free, 
graceful gait. Just the walk all women should have; I 
wonder if it is a type common to Roseville?" 

Half the inhabitants of Roseville, had they heard this 
question, would have uttered a most emphatic No. While 
the other half as a matter of course would have shouted 
yes. But there are no ears, fortunately for most of 
us, that catch the fall of a thought, and Mr. Jermyn, 
his question unanswered, walked slowly on, to pass an 
idle morning hour by the river side. 

A few mornings after she had established herself on 
such a very friendly and confidential footing with her 
new boarder, Mrs. Brace, while engaged in dusting his 
book-table, made a discovery. It was a letter that was 
more than half-hidden between two books, a letter with- 
out its envelope and written upon fine thick paper. Mrs. 
Brace fairly trembled with delight, but before touching 
the letter with a finger tip she went briskly to the window 
and took a long look up and down the street. Next she 
opened the door and looked out into the narrow hall, 
and then she seized the letter and thrusting it into her 


36 


A SLENDER CLUE 


capacious pocket, beat a hasty retreat from the room. 

A few moments later her voice came shrilly down to 
her worser half, where he sat comfortably smoking his 
clay pipe upon the veranda. 

"Brace, Brace! Come up here this minute! 

From long acquaintance., with the gamut of his wife^s 
voice, Mr. Brace knew that this was an imperative sum- 
mons, and he lounged up the stairs, still smoking. 

Mrs. Brace was sitting upon the side of their mutual 
couch in their joint sleeping room, an open letter in her 
hand, and signs of pleasurable excitement in her face. 

"What did I you. Brace," she burst out, "didn’t I 
say he was something uncommon!" 

"Who?" questioned Brace tritely. 

"Who! why him, the new boarder. Brace, read that!" 

She thrust the letter into his wondering face, and he 
drew it from her hand, and lowered it to a more com- 
fortable point of vision. This was the letter, dated from 
London, England." 

"Edgar Poinsett Jermyn: 

"Str — Your letter has lately reached me. Allow me to 
say that I quite disapprove of your course. Your fancy for 
remaining so long in that barbarous country is inexplica- 
ble to me as well as to your mother. Lady Mary is not 
in good health and your return would gratify her. As for 
myself I still say, as at first, I have ceased to dictate to 
my sons. Since your eldest brother has shown himself so 
regardless of my wishes and my youngest son has will- 
fully forsaken his home and family, I am passive, and 
my children make or mar their destinies as they will. 
The Lady Stella, whose hand you rejected so shamelessly, 
is married at last, and to the Hon. Charles Lowton. 
So there is an end of that. I send you following this a 
draft on my bankers for two thousand pounds, all you 
need expect to receive during your mother’s lifetime 
and mine. You have preferred to make your own career. 
See that it is not an ignoble one. 

"Ralph Foster Jermyn, Bart." 


A SCHOLAR AND A GENTLEMAN 


37 


Mr. Brace puzzled so long over this missive that his 
wife fairly writhed with impatience. At last he removed 
the pipe from his mouth and gave utterance to a long, 
low whistle. 

"Wall!" he ejaculated finally, "so it seems that he’s 
really a high-flier, as near’s I can make out of that. 
B-a-r-t — what’s that stand for, mother?” 

"That’s what puzzles me,” replied Mrs. Brace, once 
more taking, possession of the letter. "But I mean to 
find out. Where’s he gone. Brace?” 

"Where’s who gone?” 

"Who! why him, Mr. Jermyn. Do you know where he 
went? ” 

"Down to the saw-mill to see the boys fish.” 

"Are ye sure? ” 

"Seen ’em go. Heard him ask the boys as polite as 
silk if they’d object to his company.” 

Thrusting the letter into her pocket again, Mrs. Brace 
pushed her husband aside with scant ceremony, rushed 
from the room and down the back-stairs calling as she 
went — "Juleej Julee Bra-ace.” 

A small girl with a solied face thrust her head out 
from some rear apartment near the foot of the stair- 
way. 

"Wha-at!” she cried as if answering a call from the 
house-top. 

"Julee,” gasped Mrs. Brace, stopping for breath at the 
bottom of the stairs and lowering her voice to a mysterious 
whisper, "Julee, put on your bunnit” — puff — "an’run over 
to the printer’s office” — a long breath — "an’ ask Rene 
Brian if she will come over here right away. Tell her 
yer ma wants to see her about something particular and 
that I won’t hender her five minutes.” 

As the kitchen door closed behind her messenger, Mrs. 
Brace turned with a sigh of relief and began slowly to 


38 


A SLENDER CLUB 


retrace her steps up^ the stairs. At the top she met her 
husband standing like a sentinel in waiting. 

“Mother, what ye up to? ” he asked uneasily. 

“Look here, Brace,don’t you worry me," she said; “Reeny 
Brian is a sensible close-mouthed little body. I’m goin’ 
to ask her to explain some things to me. / ain’t afraid 
to trust her." 

Mr. Brace favored his wife with a broad grin, and 
began to move slowly toward the front stairs. 

“Old woman,” he said over his shoulder, “if ye gii 
yerself into a scrape ye must git yerseif out." 

“Umph!" sniffed she, as she re-entered her cban^ber, 
‘Pll risk myself." 


CHAPTER IV 


THE \VTIEEL BEGINS TO TURN 

"Wants to see me?" queried Rene Brian turning 
around upon her high stool with a half-filled "stick,” 
in one hand and a capital letter B, in the other; for 
Rene was the sister of the village editor and assisted 
him at the compositor’s case. "To see me? Really!” 

Charlie Brian lifted a tired face from the proof be 
fore him and turned it toward her. 

"You had better run over, Rene,” he said, and then 
with a side glance at the messenger, he threw out be- 
tween his teeth this hint: "s— scribers ye know.” 

"Ma she said she’d be awfully obliged and she won’t 
keep ye a minit,” added the veracious Julia, "an’ she’s — " 

"Very well, Julia. To please you, Chari — " said Rene, 
slipping down from the stool, and depositing hei type- 
stick carefully upon the desk. "Run home, Jul;a, and 
tell your mother I am coming in a moment.” 

When the child had gone Rene came to her brother’s 
desk, untying her big gingham apron as she ap{)roaclievi 
and said: 

"Charlie Brian, do you want to see your poor little 
sister annihilated. Don’t you know that I am going to 
my doom. Only last night Mrs. Tripp told us that Mrs, 
Brace was one of the six or more wrathful mammas 
whose darlings were not noticed in the report of the 
school exhibition. Mrs. Brace has found out that I wrote 
that report, and now you are sending me to beard the, 
— the — ogress in her den.” 


39 


40 


A SLENDER CLUE 


The editor laughed and stuck his pencil behind his 
ear. 

“Young woman,” he said severely, “delude yourself if 
you will; but don’t attempt to delude me. Don^t I 
know that a row with Mrs. Brace and all her tribe 
would be just to your taste. Have I not tested your 
warlike spirit? If you harbor a fear this moment it is 
that Mrs. Brace may have sent for you to borrow the 
pattern of your new jacket, or to ask you to show her 
how you make your dresses bunch up so Frenchify.” 

She shrugged her shoulders, hung her apron in a tiny 
closet, donned a little straw turban and moved with an 
air of mock hesitation toward the outer door, where she 
paused and turned with a tragic gesture. 

“Charles Arthur Brian, farewell! for you may never 
see me again. O, if I am brought back to you a ghastly, 
'bleeding corpse,’ see that they bury me in my new ging- 
ham gown. I — I have never worn it.” 

Her exit was followed by a ringing laugh which came 
floating back to the ears of the young editor, and as he 
bent once more to his task he sighed: 

“Poor Rene, I wish I could give her something better 
than gingham gowns.” 

For full fifteen minutes he worked on at the proof be- 
fore him, the rueful look that had accompanied his brief 
soliloquy still resting on his face. At the end of that 
time the door was flung open with a force that caused 
it to rebound and come in sudden contact with the hand 
still outstretched, as in pushing it inward. 

“What I Rene!” he began, then paused abruptly as he 
noted the cloud upon his sister’s brow, and the ominous 
fire in her eye. 

She turned swiftly upon the offending door, and closed 
it with a bang, using her left hand in so doing. 

“Hurt, sis?” again hazarded the editor. 


THE IVHEEL BEGINS TO TURN 


41 


"Hurt!" Rene glanced ruefully down at her red right 
hand, back toward the door, and then crossing the room 
and seating herself in the big editorial chair, she broke 
into a laugh while the wrathful look yet shone in her 
eye, and some thought sent the blood, hotter and red- 
der than before, up to cheek and forehead; after a mo- 
ment she checked her laughter, which had a hint of 
nervousness in it, and sat silently smoothing her injured 
hand. Then she lifted her eyes to her brother's face* 
and laughed again. 

“I had a momentary sensation of having hurt my 
hand, Chari — but was, and am still, so engrossed by an- 
other sensation — ” 

“You need not name it,’’ interrupted her brother, “I 
see it. It^s written all over you — you are a three-sheet 
poster of wrath. Out with it, Rene; was it the exhibi- 
tion? ’’ 

“The exhibition! would it had been.” 

“The — the French — drapery?" 

"Charles Brian!" 

“Rene — you alarm me. Has — has she asked you to 
marry her son Tom?" 

Rene’s anger vanished in a burst of merry laughter; 
she abandoned the editorial chair and came and leaned 
upon her brother’s shoulder. 

“Spare your wits, old boy," she said, still laughing, 
“and don’t remonstrate when I say to you that never, 
never, never again will I go at your urgent bidding, to 
be interviewed, or to interview a Roseville subscriber. 
Do you know what that — that monument of imperti- 
nence entrapped me into doing?" 

“Promise of — ” 

“Chari! don’t aggravate me! she made me read a let- 
ter not intended for my eyes — or hers." 

The editor’s face grew serious. 


42 


A SLENDER CLUB 


"Rene, explain,” he said anxiously. 

"I found Mrs. Brace," began Rene slowly and with an 
intonation that warned her brother of her once more 
rising wrath. "I found her sitting upon the bed in her 
own private and especially hideous bower; she held a 
paper in her hand; she seemed to be in a hurry, and she 
made a dive at me the moment I appeared. Reeny,’ 
she began, ‘I hated to bother you, but I won’t be long. 
•Pm an old woman, an’ I hain’t got your eddication. 
Ive got somethin’ here that I can’t quite get through 
my head, the big names and all; an’ I want to have ye 
read it to me. ’Taint every one that I’d ask it of, but I 
know you can be trusted; say Reeny, what does B-a-r-t 
mean?’ 

"‘B-a-r-t,’ I said, ‘why that depends; it might be the 
nickname of a man, or it might be an abbreviation — ’ 

"‘A what?’ she asked stupidly. 'An abbreviation,’ I 
said again, whereupon she sighed and said, ‘I can’t make 
out; jest read that ere letter for me, Reeny, and tell 
me which kind of a Bart that one is.’ I took the letter 
and read it through, and as I read I thought that some- 
body had played a practical joke upon her, although I 
could not quite comprehend it myself. It was dated 
from London, and purported to be a letter from a father 
in England to his son in America — and it was signed — 
listen, Chari — Ralph Forster Jermyn, Baronet." 

"Phew! ” interjected her listener. 

There, ^ breaks out Mrs. Brace — Charlie, I can hard- 
ly resist the temptation to call her terrible names. 
‘That’s it, Reeny, the B-a-r-t; what does it mean?’ 

"I explained the meaning of the title, and then that 
woman struck her two hands together and exclaimed: 

" 'My gracious! then he is the son of a real lord.^ ‘He! ’ 
I said carelessly; she clutched my arm and leaned over 
so close that I feared she intended to kiss me. ‘Reeny.’ 


THE IVHEEL BEGINS TO TURN 


43 


she whispered, Til tell yoi^, iVs him, Mr. Jermyn, our 
new boarder that — lost this letter — jest think what a 
Aristocrat we’ve got among us!’ 

The narrative ended in an abrupt gurgle, and her list- 
ener looked up to see the fire once more alight in her eyes 
and to answer it with a like gleam in his own. 

“Rene what did you do — or say." 

“What!" striking her palms together fiercely. “I threw 
that letter down at her feet and I opened my mouth to 
pour out a volume of wrath; and then — a thrill of dis- 
gust ran over me, as my eyes encountered her shame- 
less, unconscious, startled stare; I shut my lips tight to- 
gether and rushed out of the room, and the house." 

Charles Brian turned on his stool and passed an arm 
about his sister’s shoulders. ^ 

“Little girl," he said gently, *T did not dream of any- 
thing so serious as this." 

“Serious!" reaching up her injured hand to clasp the 
fingers that lay upon her shoulder, “why Charlie I feel 
like a pickpocket. Think how deliberately I read that 
man’s letter." 

“Its precisely what I am thinking about, sis; but don’t 
let it fret you. Listen; that’s Gorman stumbling in; not 
yet sober I suppose. Let me finish this proof, and we 
will talk over this affair at noon." 

Gorman, the typical journeyman printer came loung- 
ing in, and Rene returned slowly to her case, and her 
typesetting; but the red flush still dyed her cheek, and 
the indignant light yet gleamed in her eye, when twelve 
o’clock struck and Charles Brian pushed aside his copy 
and said over his shoulder: 

“Now for it, Rene.” 


CHAPTER V 


A TASTE OF ARISTOCRACY 

Mr. Jermyn was not the man to interest himself over- 
much in the events and inhabitants of Roseville, and yet 
he had not been long in the village before he knew 
much of its social and inner life, if a community so 
small that each individual happening, in the dearth of 
larger interests, becomes public propert}^, and where noth- 
ing can occur, and remain hidden from the scrutiny of 
ten hundred inhabitants who are constantly on the alert, 
may be said to possess an inner life. 

Mr. Jermyn, although naturally reserved, was a good 
listener, and with no visible effort on his part he was 
soon acquainted with many facts that were considered 
important by the Rosevillians. 

He knew that Roseville possessed an aristocracy, and 
of whom and what it consisted; he knew that it held a 
small minority who disclaimed all fellowship with this 
aristocracy, and yet were qualified, in all things save 
length of purse, to stand at its head. Foremost among 
this independent minority were Charles Brian and his 
sister, orphans whose parents had been able to bestow 
upon them a fund of natural intelligence, a careful 
education, sound moral and mental culture, and sundry 
gifts and graces o5 manner, that, more than all the rest, 
recommended them to some, while more than all the 
rest they rendered them obnoxious to others. 

With these equipments the brother and sister had 
come to Roseville from their native university town, 

44 


A TASTE OF ARISTOCRACY 


45 


lured thither by the possibilities that appeared to them 
in the fact that Roseville lacked, and needed, a news- 
paper, and here they had made friends and enemies, as 
must have been given Charles and Rene Brian, and — 
given — Roseville. 

But holding itself equally aloof, as Mr. Jermyn soon 
learned from the plebeians and the aristocrats of Rose- 
ville was another social circle, the “great folks on the 
Hills.” 

The Barings, two brothers, each possessing a com- 
fortable amount of capital, had migrated from eastward 
and made what they considered a temporary halt near 
Roseville, with the intention of investing some of their 
surplus capital in land. 

But Jacob Baring, who was born with a mania for 
geological investigations, and who after years of explo- 
ration and travel had settled into an experimenting 
mineralogist, had discovered, while inspecting a tract of 
meadow land, that the soil was underlaid with a pale 
clay that is rarely found and could be put to profitable 
uses, and then John Baring, who could supplement his 
brother’s mineralogical talent • with shrewd business 
qualifications, invented a scheme by which to utilize his 
brother’s discovery. 

The result was a purchase of the land “for building 
purposes" at a moderate price; opening up of large clay 
beds; a factory for the manufacture of various articles 
of pottery; removal of the families of the Baring 
brothers to Roseville, and later on, the building of two 
fine mansions upon two adjoining hills; a doubling up of 
the Baring wealth, and a wonderful increase in tlie 
Baring pride. 

Mrs. Jacob Baring was a member of an old Philadel- 
phia family, and every year she journeyed to the home 
of her youth, returning to open her house in the summer 


46 


A SLENDER CLUE 


months to a flock of fashionable guests. Her only 
daughter had married a gentleman of Philadelphia - and 
lived in that city, and since her marriage Mrs. Jacob 
Baring had kept a spring-like element about her, by 
bringing and keeping one or more of her nieces from 
the East, as a resident of Rose Hill Place. 

John Baring had two daughters who had received all 
the benefits to be derived from a fashionable school for 
young ladies, and who now needed only a tour upon the 
continent to complete them, and make of them all that 
an aspiring mother and a wealthy father could desire 
or expect. 

Th two families lived upon the most friendly and 
social terms, each upholding the dignity of the other 
and both extending to the lesser denizens of Roseville 
a patronage not too haughty, nor yet too cordial. And 
as even daughters of aristocratic parents are born with 
some of the commonest of tastes and attributes, the 
daughters of John Baring and the nieces of Mrs. Jacob 
Baring found the society of a few of Roseville*’ s most 
eligible young men not entirely beneath them, at such 
times, as they, lacking greater excitements, desired to 
amuse themselves with lawn parties, tennis, tea drink- 
ings, and tableaux. 

It became, thus, almost a matter of necessity to be 
more or less civil to a few of Roseville’s daughters, 
and the fact that Charlie Brian was a handsome and 
promising young fellow may have had some weight in 
making Rene Brian a favorite with the young ladies up- 
on the Hills. 

All these things came to Mr. Jermyn’s knowledge, 
within a few days, together with many other matters 
more scandalous, and, to him, less interesting. 

A few days after Mrs. Brace’s discovery of the foreign 
letter, Mr. Jermyn sauntered across the street and en- 
tered the printing office. 


A TASTE OF ARISTOCRACY 


47 


It was not their busiest day; the paper had been is- 
sued the evening before^ and both compositor and ap- 
prentice were absent, while the editor sat at his desk, 
folding and siiperscribing some letters just written and 
intended for the evening mail, and Rene stood near a 
window scanning with a bored look a pile of exchanges 
tliat lay upon a stool beside her. 

Mr. Jermyn lifted his hat from his head, as he en- 
tered the door, with a graceful gesture indicating his 
recognition of the presence of a lady; and, with just one 
glance in tlie direction of the window where Rene stood, 
he crossed the room, halting before the editor’s chair. 

“Mr. Brtan I presume?” 

Mr. Brian bowed and rose from his seat. 

“Be seated, sir, I beg,” said Mr. Jermyn courteously. 
“Have I called at a time when you are too much oc- 
ciu:>ied to«attend to my small business?” 

Charlie Brian moved forward his own chair and drew 
up for himself another. 

“I am not especially busy,” he said, feeling somehow 
relieved by the serenity of his visitor, for he had at, first 
thouglit connected this visit with his sister’s unfortu- 
nate knowledge of that foreign letter. “This is not our 
busiest day. ” 

“I am glad of that;” he seated himself in compliance 
with a gesture from Mr. Brian — “for my errand is so 
trifling, or would appear so to you, if I had chanced to 
intrude upon your busiest hours.” 

He smiled slightly and put his hand into a breast 
pocket, withdrawing from thence a folded bit of paper. 

“It’s only the printing of a few words,” and he laid 
tlie paper open upon the desk at the editor’s elbow, lean- 
ing forward to do this, and as he drew back, lifting, 
an instant, his eyes, still smiling, to meet the eyes of 
the editor. 


48 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Mr. Brian took up the paper and glanced at it, think- 
ing as he did so that his visitor was certainly a frank and 
unassuming person, and then he smiled in his turn. 

"It’s a title?” he said interrogatively. 

"Yes.” 

"Then you want — ” 

"Two or three slips, and — ” here the, visitor smiled 
again, "I hardly know how to say it. Mr. Brian, I am 
about to throw myself on your mercy. I have been ia 
Roseville less than a week but — ” here the smile deep- 
ened. "I have learned to fear it.” 

Charles Brian laughed, even while his face wore a 
puzzled expression, and Rene Brian colored furiously 
and began to gather up her exchanges with hasty, nerv- 
ous fingers. 

"I can understand that feeling," said Brian. "I was 
new to Roseville myself not long ago.” 

"Ah! then you will pardon me if I say, what no doubt 
is quite unnecessary. Don’t let Agamemnon and Menelaus 
out of your fingers. Don’t let any one who might whis- 
per it in Roseville know that I am — " 

"An author,” supplied Brian, "an expounder of the 
classics. ” 

"A pretender to authorship, only; Mr. Brian, I hope 
you appreciate my motive. I find myself, as a stranger, 
sufficiently conspicuous in your village already.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” And Charles Brian’s eyes twinkled 
as if some former experience of his own had suddenly 
presented itself before his mental vision. 

"Your secret shall be safe, sir.” He lowered his eyes 
to the bit of paper and reperused its contents: 

AGAMEMNON AND MENELAUS 

A PARALLEL 
BY 

E. P. Jermyn 


A TASTE OF ARISTOCRACY 


49 


and then placed it carefully in his own pocket-book. 
Having done this he glanced over at the window where 
Rene was engaged in rolling up her bundle of exchanges. 

Mr. Jermyn sat silent for moment and then putting 
his hand again to his pocket he drew out a card and 
proffered it to his vis a vis, who received it with a 
start, turning his eyes from his sister’s face as if almost 
detected in an unwarrantable action. 

"Allow me," said Mr. Jermyn with another of his en- 
gaging smiles. "The knowledge that you have been, 
like myself, a stranger here, makes me desire your 
acquaintance.” 

“And sympathy?" added Brian, glancing down at the 
card. "I am very glad to know you, sir.” 

And the two arose and shook each other by the hand, 
each greeting the other with a low laugh. 

"I will endeavor not to be a troublesome acquaintance, ’’ 
said Mr. Jermyn, reseating himself. "The truth is it’s 
my first experience in an American village — and I begin 
to think that I am laboring under some disadvantage.” 

He lifted his eyes to let them rest upon Rene, who 
was crossing the room hurriedly, to vanish for a moment 
in the little closet, and to reappear, with crimson cheeks, 
her straw turban pulled far down upon her brow and the 
packet of papers upon her arm. 

"Rene, ” said her brother in a low tone, "I wish you 
would take these letters with you.” 

Mr. Jermyn’ s calm eye noted a shade of embarrass- 
ment in his tone, and the start and flush with which she 
greeted his words, and he rose hastily. 

"Mr. Brian,” he said, "I feel that I am in some way 
troubling you or trespassing upon your time; I am 
driving away this young lady.” 

Charlie Brian, who had been hurriedly gathering the 
letters from off his desk, turned quickly. 


50 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"No, Mr. Jemyn, I beg of you—" and then seeing his 
gaze still fixed upon Rene, he said, as he stepped toward 
her with the letters: 

"It is my sister. Miss Brian. Rene, allow me to in- 
troduce Mr. Jermyn." 

Rene Brian favored the stranger with a very haughty 
bow, and casting upon her brother a look of mingled 
reproach and defiance, snatched the letters from his out- 
biretched hand, and without one backward glance, hur- 
ried from the office. 

"I fear," said Mr. Jermyn, taking up his hat, "that 
without design, I have by my coming at this time, 
annoyed Miss Brian." 

"Annoyed is not the word," said the other gravely. 
"My sister was embarrassed. Pray reseat yourself, Mr. 
Jermyn^ I — I feel somewhat embarrassed myself," his 
fine frank face flushing slightly. "But 1 owe you an ex- 
planation. " 

"Pardon me; an explanation?" 

Mr. Jermyn stood for a moment, then seeing^ the 
anxiety upon the face of the other, he sat down, saying: 
"I do not understand you, Mr Brian." 

"I hope that you will, at least, understand my motive, 
and exonerate my sister, Mr. Jermyn, when you have 
heard me." 

"Your sister. Miss Brian?" 

"Listen;" Charlie Brian fixed his frank eyes upon the 
face of his visitor, and, beginning with the flying visit 
from Julia Brace, told the story of the letter; all of it, 
as Rene had told it to him. 

"We have talked this matter over," he said in conclu- 
sion, "and I had convinced Rene that it was right to 
make it known to you, should a suitable ‘opportunity 
present itself. You can scarcely wonder now at my sis- 
ter’s confusion when you came in upon us, and by your 


A TASTE OF ARISTOCRACY 


51 


request in regard to your authorship made it as plain to 
her as to me, that the time for confession had come." 

Mr. Jermyn had listened at first with a look of surprise 
and annoyance, but his countenance soon resumed its 
accustomed tranquillity, and when the speaker paused, he 
lifted his head and laughed a low, mellow laugh. 

"Fate has ordained it," he said lightly; "again I am 
at your mercy, yours and — but no." He paused suddenly 
and the smile forsook his face. 

"In this case," said Brian, "you are out of my hands. 
You are at the mercy of Mrs. Brace." * 

Mr. Jermyn looked serious, then smiled again. 

"I confess," he said, "that this thing annoys me. I 
hoped to dwell quietly here for a few months. Am I 
to be driven away from Roseville because this old woman 
has pried into my family affairs?" 

"I hope not, Mr. Jermyn.” 

*‘j3ut — what will come of it? 1 am putting your sister 
and yourself out of the question. It rests between Mrs. 
Brace and me. ” 

Charlie Brian laughed, in spite of his desire to look 
solemn. 

"Do you really wish to know?" he asked. 

^ "I really do.” 

"Therf, it will come about in this fashion: Mrs. Brace 
will preserve, say has preserved, a brief silence on the 
subject, owing to my sister’s unsatisfactory conduct, 
but she will be true to her nature. After waiting and 
looking for an explosion, she will begin to feel that after 
all there has been no harm done. Then she will tell 
Mrs. Allsop — and Mrs. Allsop is her most intimate friend 

no, ‘crony’ is the word, and a gossip second only to 

Mrs. Brace herself.” 

"Say no more! Mrs. Allsop, then, means all Rose- 
ville. Is there any way of bridling Mrs. Brace’s 
tongue? ” 


52 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"No, not permanently. You might confront and accuse 
her, it would only make a scene, fire her temper, and 
send the story broadcast, with such embellishments as 
would astound you.” 

"I like Roseville, ’’ said Mr. Jermyn reflectively, "but 
perhaps I would better leave it.” 

“It won’t do much good. Your history will be given 
to Roseville then, accompanied by red fire — excuse me.” 

Mr. Jermyn bowed gravely, leaned back in his chair 
and seemed to meditate. Then he said, slowly, as if still 
thinking:* 

"J regret this business; and I see that, as you say, it 
is past remedy. I congratulate myself, however, that 
the discovery made by Mrs. Brace came, as it did, to you. 
I am not a man to talk of family affairs, and but for 
this woman’s curiosity, I should have been slow to speak 
of myself. But I may say to you now, relying upon you 
to use the information as may seem good, when we know 
how much this gossiping woman misrepresents or dis- 
torts the truth, that I am that usually unfortunate being, 
the younger son of an English gentleman; that I left my 
home and country, the first because I could not decide 
to marry the woman my parents had chosen for me, and 
the second, because my brain was filled with wonderful 
ideas of this new world.” 

He paused a moment, sighed heavily, and then resumed: 

"My father’s pride and my own obstinacy, have kept us 
apart. No welcome awaited me across the water, and 
so I have remained here. The letter that your sister saw 
was in answer to one from me, written in a moment 
when my heart softened toward those at home. It was 
not a cordial letter, and here let me explain; when I 
left England, and up to the date on which I received 
that letter, my father was Ralph Forster Jermyn, Esq. 
The title which so puzzled my landlady was affixed to 


A TASTE OF ARISTOCRACY 


5S 


notify me that the death of a relative has made him a 
baronet. It was like him, this method of informing me 
of his accession. It was very like him.” 

Again he paused for a moment, then — "I hope that my 
private affairs will not prove interesting to Roseville,” 
he said, “but should Mrs. Brace and her coterie make 
me appear in a too lurid light, you have my authority 
for this much: my permission to use the facts I have 
stated whenever it may seem to you worth while.” 

Charlie Brian bowed his acknowledgment of this con- 
fidence. 

“As to Miss Brian,” continued Mr. Jermyn, “Mrs. 
Brace did me a great injury when she gave her my let- 
ter to read, if it has caused her to look upon me with 
disfavor. Assure her for me, that I am actually indebted 
to her. But for her that letter might have fallen into 
the hands of — some one with less delicacy. And — I 
might not have had the pleasure of this meeting and of 
claiming at least one acquaintance in my solitude.” 

“Oh you will find yourself claimed by numerous 
acquaintances, once Mrs. Brace loosens her tongue,” 
said Charles Brian with a touch of bitterness in his tone; 
“all our aristocracy will be at your feet.” 

“Really? Roseville has then an aristocracy?” 

“It has indeed.” 

“Ah, well, Mr. Brian, I shall be your old man of 
the sea.' I shall expect you to direct my course, lest 
through my lack of knowledge, I fail to recognize prop- 
erly this aristocracy, and so fall into bad company.” 

“If my sister were here, she would tell you promptly, 
that you had already fallen into bad company.” 

“Would she?” rising slowly and smiling down upon 
his new acquaintance. “We should disagree then. For, 
don’t publish it to your aristocracy, Mr. Brian; I am, in 
spite of my titled ancestry, very Bohemian in my tastes.” 


54 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Some one tapped quickly at the outer door, then threw 
it wide open and the two men saw in the doorway a 
dainty vision. 

Two young girls closely resembling each other in 
feature and dress stood before them, their lovely faces 
smiling yet startled, their rich dresses making fine 
effect opposed to the plainness of the room. 

“Pardon us, Mr. Brian,” said the foremost one, dimp 
ling and blushing; “we expected to find Rene here." 

“She has just gone." 

“Oh! then we may overtake her; good afternoon." 

She nodded brightly and turned away still blushing, 
and followed by her companion. 

When the door had closed behind them, Mr. Jermyn 
turned to the editor. 

"Is that," he asked “a sample of your Roseville aris- 
tocracy? " 

“No," answered Charlie Brian, his face flushing, "that 
is the genuine article, the ladies of Laurel HiU. " 


CHAPTER VI 


BESIEGED BY SOCIETY 

The acquaintance thus begun between Charles Brian* 
and Mr. Jermyn was not permitted to languish. 

The young editor, on his part, would not have taken 
the initiative even though Mr. Jermyn seemed to him to 
be a man well worth knowing, for he was poor, he was 
proud, he was independent; and he felt that friendly 
overtures, if they were made, were not to be made by 
him. 

But Mr. Jermyn, in his quiet way, with a mixture of 
dignity and frankness which when his circle of acquaint 
ances became wider, he was never observed to use in 
addressing others, pressed down his barriers of pride 
and reserve, and sought his society as a matter of course. 
Not obtrusively, not in a patronizing manner, but as 
equal meets equal. 

‘T am trying not to overestimate my privileges,” he 
said one morning with his quiet smile, coming into the 
office and standing beside the editor’s desk — ‘T try to 
remember that where I have only one acquaintance 
you have many friends. I hoped that you would look 
in upon me at the Roseville House, but — ” 

The editor’s hands went up in a quick gesture. 

“My dear sir," he cried, "how could you; or, rather, 
how could /, without encountering Mrs. Brace, with, 
heaven only knows what awful results?” 

"Mrs. Brace?” slightly elevating his brows, "I had not 
thought of her. Does she carry her vendettas so far?” 

55 


<^6 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“Undoubtedly. I should not like to throw myself in 
her way." 

“Then I am appeased, and, Mr. Brian, if I do not make 
myself personally obnoxious to you, I intend to drop 
in upon you occasionally, although the very cold recog- 
nition vouchsafed me by Miss Brian, this very morning, 
leads me to fear that she has her vendetta too. " 

The young editor laughed. 

, T think Rene has not been able to separate you from 
Mrs. Brace; the sight of either brings to her the recol- 
lection of that letter, and the embarrassment it has 
caused her.” 

“I wish she would forget that letter,” said Mr. Jermyn 
gravely, “or look upon the matter as I do. It will be 
my turn to be aggrieved if she does not soon take a 
milder view of tilings; I could never associate her with 
Mrs. Brace.” 

But Rene found it difficult .to forget, or to take a new 
view of things; she received his courtesies with perfect 
politeness and a calm reserve that caused him to wonder 
a little, perhaps to feel some slight annoyance, which, 
however, never manifested itself by look or word, and, 
that attracted him, when it was honestly meant to repel. 

“She is a charming girl," he assured himself. "And 
she will develop into a magnificent woman; I must try 
and make her understand me better. It’s a pity she — " 

But Mr. Jermyn added to his reserve, discretion; and 
just here he closed his lips, and shut behind them the 
remainder of the sentence. 

His huge trunks of books came duly from the city, 
and were inspected, outwardly, wondered at, and depos- 
ited in his sitting-room, where they stood securely 
locked, in the absence of their owner, and proof against 
the curiosity of Mrs. Brace, who still retained the care 
of the rooms. 


BESIEGED BY SOCIETY 


57 


She had restored the letter to its place between the 
books, and had awaited with some misgivings the result 
of her confidence, sadly misplaced — she felt it to have 
been — in Rene Brian. 

But nothing came of her waiting, no word from Rene, 
no hint from Mr. Jermyn that he had found his letter 
not exactly as he left it, and so, after keeping her secret, 
with great difficulty, for more than a week, Mrs. Brace 
fulfilled Charlie Brian’s prediction, and told Mrs. 
Allsop. 

Mrs. Allsop possessed something more than the ordi- 
nary ability to absorb and disseminate news; she was 
a prophetess as well, and had a talent for “seeing 
through” things, especially those intricate things of 
flesh and blood, so dense and unreadable to most of us. 

“Umph!” said Mrs. Allsop, after she had given due 
consideration to Mrs. Brace’s recital, and made wise 
comments upon some portions of it. “Umph! It’s easy 
enough to see why Reeny Brian ain’t never told about 
her seein’ the letter. She ain’t agoin’ to make you any 
trouble — she’s too cunnin’ for that. I can see clean 
through that girl.” 

Mrs. Brace leaned quickly forward and gazed at her 
/riend with eager eyes; she could not see through Rene 
Brian and she was full of admiration for the woman 
who could. 

“It’s as plain to ?ne," Mrs. Allsop added, "as ‘a-b-c’” — 
:his was an oft-used alliteration of hers, and she was 
proud of it. “Im s’prised \.\i 2 X you don’t see through it, 
Mrs. Brace." 

“I don’t know,” sighed Mrs. Brace shaking her head^ 
ctnd reluctantly yielding up in this matter, the palm of 
superiority; “I must say 1 don’t see." 

This was Mrs. Allsop’ s moment of triumph, and she 
settled back in her squeaky rocking-chair, crossed two 


58 


A SLENDER CLUE 


fat hands over a stomach very comfortably adapted for 
a resting place, and let her swaying chair creak a brief 
overture. 

Then she began: 

If folks don’t. find out who your Englisher is till Reeny 
Brian tells ’em, they won’t find it out in a hurry! An’ 
you mark my word an’ see if Reeny ain’t the first 
girl in Roseville to scrape acquaintance with him. An’ 
she won’t let Molly Craig nor Belle Newcome nor the 
Baring girls into the secret as long as she can keep ’em 
out. Them Barings hold their heads mighty high, 
but I guess they wouldn’t let Reeny have him all to 
herself if they found out he had a Lord for his father, 
and lots of high-flyin’ connecshuns to boot.” 

“No," said Mrs. Brace, ‘T reckon they wouldn^ t ” — and 
then she added with the pride of a discoverer: "He’s 
a notch higher up in the world than them anyhow.” 

‘‘That’s so,” assented Mrs. Allsop, as if willing to con- 
cede something, out of the abundance of her worldly wis- 
dom — ‘‘that’s so, an’ you mark my word, when it leaks 
out who he is, an’ the Barings make a set at him, they 
won’t be so sweet on Reeny Brian, nor on Charley 
neither, maybe!” 

Possibly Rene Brian had foreseen some such conclu- 
sions, knowing as she did Mrs. Brace and her friend — 
and herein, perhaps, lay her reason for avoiding, as much 
as possible, all encounters with Mr. Jermyn, and for re- 
ceiving such of his courtesies as she could not avoid, 
with such marked indifference. And this reason may 
have been stengthened, by the pictured face that looked 
down upon her from the wall of her own little room; 
and by certain letters white and thick, that came regu- 
larly into .her hand on Mondays and Thursdays. 

Whatever reason she may have had, her indifference 
to the fine-mannered stranger was evident to him. at 


BESIEGED BY SOCIETY 


59 


least; and it pricked through his splendid serenity, 
touched his pride, and awakened such an interest in 
the pretty, piquant, unimpressionable little damsel, 
as he might not otherwise have felt. 

Mrs. Allsop had predicted that the secret of the 
stranger’s identity would soon leak out, in spite of Rene 
Brian’s artful reticence — and it did. 

Shortly after the secret came into her possession, 
Mrs. Allsop deposited it for safe-keeping in the bosom 
of the village dressmaker, and there all trace of its 
source became lost, and it wafted about Roseville, borne 
on the unsubstantial wings of "I heard” and “they say.” 

Disembarrassed of all individual authority, its prog- 
ress was wonderful; and Mr. Jermyn became the center 
of interest — the most notable object in all Roseville. 

Even the movements of the Hill dwellers, diminished 
to little importance. Public interest forgot them; the 
public gaze withdrew itself from the two mansions and 
became fixed upon the Roseville House, and when Mr. 
Jermyn chanced to be there, the printing office. 

Questions poured in upon Mrs. Brace, who must know 
as a matter of course much that was interesting concern- 
ing her boarder. Callers whose footsteps had rarely or 
never crossed her threshold suddenly remembered her, 
and paid their respects in the parlors of the "Roseville.” 

Charlie Brian was in sudden demand upon all social 
occasions, and was made much of by the belles of Rose- 
ville. And Rene was coaxed and quizzed by turns, much 
to her annoyance and discomfort. 

While this was going on all about him, Mr. Jermyn 
continued to go and come quite as if he were not aware 
how large a place he occupied in the public interest. 
He wrote for hours at a time, he took long walks, he 
bought a boat, had it newly painted, and rowed and fished 
upon the river, and unobtrt^sively, but persistently, he 


60 


A SLENDER CLUE 


cultivated the acquaintance of Charlie Brian, choosing 
his time with rare tact, never visiting the office on 
"paper days, ” or at the hours when the editor was likely 
to be busiest, and never making his stay too long. 

He was a good talker and a good listener, and Charlie 
Brian soon found his reserve melting. 

"It^s of no use," he said one day to his sister.. "Don’t 
lecture me any more, sis. The Englishman is a fine fel- 
low, and good society is not so plentiful here that one 
can afford to throw it over one’s shoulder. Your attitude 
is excellent; you couldn’t do better — being you. But / 
can’t fence him out. He extends his companionship in 
such a frank and unassuming way that I would be a 
churl to reject it." 

But he did not dream what his resolve would lead 
to. No sooner was he seen to walk, to drive, to fish 
and row with Mr. Jermyn, than his troubles began. In- 
vitations, verbal and written, poured in upon him; to 
cards, to teas, to croquet, to tennis, to lawn socials; and 
always these invitations, formality not being the rule in 
Roseville, included Mr. Jermyn. 

For a time he struggled, prevaricated, fabricated, 
alone, but one day his torment gave itself utterance. 

They were rowing down the river and passing out of 
the town, when the sight of a pony phaeton, driven 
slowly along the road that ran close to the river bank 
for miles, seemed to fire the train of thought that for 
some moments had held full possession of the young 
editor. 

He returned the bow vouchsafed him by one of the 
ladies who occupied the phaeton, turned away to frown 
down into the water rippling about the boat, and then 
uttered a short laugh. 

"Do you know," he said with a mixture of jest and 
earnest, "that I hold you r^esponsible for any number of 
sins of mine?" 


BESIEGED BY SOCIETY 


61 


“Indeed! no," Mr. Jermyn smiled and then placidly 
awaited an explanation. 

"The fact is,” repeating his laugh, "that you have 
been found out.” 

Mr. Jermyn started slightly. 

"And,” went on his companion, "/am the man who 
'Suffers. ” 

"Pray explain. ” 

"I will. I must,” tragically. "Don’t you know that 
from the moment, almost, when I was first seen in your 
society I have been besieged?" 

"How? " 

"For introductions, for information concerning you, 
for everything." 

"Really.” Mr Jermyn was evidently amused. 

"Oh, you can afford to be calm. It’s not you that 
suffers. But look at me. I am urged to bring you here, 
there, everywhere! to tea fights, to socials, to anything 
that will give the ladies a chance at you.” He sank his 
voice to a low whisper. "I should never dare say thes6 
things if we were not in the middle of the river. Do- 
do you see any mermaids about your end of the boat?" 

Mr. Jermyn looked gravely down into the water. 

"N(^, " he said. "I think that you are quite safe here. 
But seriously, Mr. Brian, I did not anticipate this; 

I can see how, in your position, it must annoy you.” 

"Annoy me?" The editor’s eyes twinkled, but he pre- 
served a grave face. "You don’t use the right word. It’s 
my conscience that hurts, and my sympathies. Imagine 
my feelings when I am obliged to deny to so many ladies 
the pleasure of your society.” 

Mr. Jermyn looked very grave, and seemed to reflect. 

"Are you quite serious about all these invitations, 
Brian?" he asked finally. 

"Serious? Look here! " Brian thrust his hand into a 


62 


A SLENDER CLUE 


breast pocket and from a handful of letters selected half 
a dozen billets and held them out to his questioner. 

But Mr. Jermyn shook his head. 

"The testimony is sufficient," he said. "And in spite 
of your jocose way of taking it, I can see how this folly 
may be slightly unpleasant to you. These people are your 
readers, your subscribers, the wives and daughters of 
your advertising patrons. I shall carry about with me 
an uneasy conscience until I have contrived to shift this 
responsibility horn your shoulders to mine," 

"The responsibility of saying no, with embellishments 
that shall make no as sweet as yes? Of uttering sin- 
fully false excuses? of — postponing, equivocating? My 
dear sir, what man can do these things so well as an ed- 
itor. " 

"No doubt you excel ; but I did not mean to supersede 
you in these specialties of yours. I must immolate my- 
self — and you.” 

"What? — how? " 

"Softly. I think we can extricate ourselves. What 
invitations have you that have not yet been ‘declined 
with thanks?’" 

Brian groaned. 

"Only two,” he said. "I don’t let them accumulate. 
Yesterday you might have had six. One of the two is 
for a tea fight at Mrs. Craig’s, that’s — let me see, next 
Tuesday; the other is for the following day: croquet at 
Squire Dixon’s.” 

"And these invitations are extended to me through 
you?" 

"Yes.” 

"I can accept them through you, according to Rose - 
ville etiquette?” 

"My dear sir, you can do anything, acording to Rose- 
ville etiquette." 


BESIEGED BY SOCIETY 


m 


“Then,” said Mr. Jermyn with his asual slow smile, 
“if you feel equal to it you may accept the invita- 
tions. ” 

“For you! ” cried Brian in surprise. 

“For both of us.” 

“Phew!” drawing in a deep breath. “I didn’t think 
you would do it — would care to meet these people.” 

“I do not,” said Mr. Jermyn quietly. “But this is 
the only way to extricate you and place the responsi- 
bility where it should rest — upon - my own shoulders. 
It can’t take long to make me known to all these peo- 
ple? " 

“No. When once they know you are to be had for 
the asking, they will all invite you to tea or some other 
fol de rol within a week.” 

“Then in a week we shall both be emancipated. You 
shall introduce me, that done you have done your part. 
Having been made known, their invitations, if I am 
favored with a repetition, will come, of course, to me 
personally.” 

“Of course,” assented Brian. 

“Well then, upon me will devolve the pleasure of ac- 
cepting — or refusing. ” 

“I see,” said Brian, and he took up his oars and rowed 
on in silence, while Mr. Jermyn -sat absently gazing 
shoreward, as if beset with no social perplexities. 

He had played his first card in a mighty game, and 
won. 

Here in quiet Roseville, aided by the hand of com- 
monplace, ignorant Mrs. Brace, he had laid the founda- 
tion for a new career, strange, terrible, tragic — fraught 
with sorrow and danger to many, with death to some. 


5 


CHAPTER VII 


HIS “lucky” morning 

Hardly six weeks have passed since E. P. Jermyn, 
late “No, 46,” doffed his prison garb, and yet, so strangely 
are some of us led, or driven by the Fates, already he 
was gathering, one by one, but swiftly, new threads for 
the weird dame’s future weaving. 

It was the day following that on which he had gra- 
ciously proposed to accept the hospitalities of Roseville, 
and so free Charlie Brian from too much responsibility; 
and Mr. Jermyn entered his boat, while the morning 
was yet fresh and dewy, and drifted down the pretty river, 
his pockets stuffed with illustrated papers and maga- 
zines. 

It was easy rowing, and he found himself, after what 
seemed a very brief time, several miles from Roseville. 

“This will do," he said to himself. “This looks silent 
and sylvan." He rowed shoreward, and stepped from the 
boat where the grass upon a gentle slope grew to the 
very water’s edge.. 

Fastening his boat, he ascended the slope and entered 
the wood, finding it S3dvan indeed. 

Near the river was a narrow but well-defined foot-path 
winding its way through dense underbrush difficult to 
penetrate, and coming out from this, some distance be- 
low the spot where his boat was moored, he found him- 
self upon a jutting rock, against which the slope leaned 
and lost itself beneath its undergrowth of tangled brush 
and overrunning vines. He had scarcely noticed the 

64 


HIS LUCKY" MORNING 


G5 


ascent, yet now he found that he was looking straight 
downward thirty feet or more, upon a jagged ledge 
standing out of the water like giant teeth and the river 
dark and still and deep about them. 

“Ugh,” he said aloud, “what an uncanny place to be 
in the heart of this calm retreat! Quite hidden too.” 
He looked again upon the jagged rocks below him, and 
moved back shuddering. 

“How hidden it is! concealed from either side by this 
dense growth, and the curve of the banks, and that 
water!” He threw himself down and peered over the 
ledge. “It looks deep! It looks dangerous!" he said. 

About him was an open space, smooth and mossy, ex- 
cept for a narrow strip just at the rock's outer edge; and 
drawing back a little, he seated himself and was about 
to take one of the magazines from his pocket when he 
heard the sound of crackling twigs, breaking short and 
sharp as if beneath a heavy and hasty foot. 

With a nimble movement, the pamphlet was thrust 
back into the big square pocket. 

“I'd rather see than be seen,” said Mr. Jermyn to him- 
self, and he crossed the small open space and vanished 
among the vines and bushes growing about the rock’s 
side; almost at the same moment, a man came out 
from the woods that stretched thick and gloomy back 
from the river, with only here and there a glimpse of the 
sky where a bridle path led to the water's edge, passing 
close behind the moss-grown rock, and descending to 
the river a little beyond it. 

It was a strange figure which came out upon the rock 
and stood there motionless, with bent head and eyes that 
seemed fixed upon some inward vision, strange and un- 
canny; not at all like the gentlemanly personage who 
had just left the place. He was tall and large of frame, 
with big hands and feet, and a slouching droop of the 


A SLENDER CLUE 


(U*. . 

shoulders; his clothes hung upon him, ill-fitting and 
slovenly, looking as if they had been forced through 
brush and brier, they were so tattered and soiled. The 
whole man“ looked unkempt and WQful. The coarse black 
hair was matted;* the black eyes looked out from above 
hollow, unshaven cheeks, with a glittering, wolfish stare; 
a fearful look, such as might have been 'worn by a mad- 
man. 

But ragged- and unkempt as he was, it was not 
the accustomed rags and wofulness of the professional 
tramp and beggar, but, rather, the abandonment of a 
rugged soul, driven out from its rnoorings, beaten and 
buffeted by some terrible fear, or loss, or sin. 

• For a moment the man stood upon .the rocld's edge 
silent and moveless,* then, as Jermyn had done before 
him, he prostrated himself and looked down at the dark 
and silent waters encircling-the jagged, protruding rocks. 
But E. Percy Jermyn had laid himself down lightly, and 
looked with only his gentlemanly head protruding above 
the- rocky teeth. This man flung himself down sud- 
denly, and half his body was thrust out over the abyss. 

Sitting upon a prostrate log, among the bushes and 
wishing himself back in his jaunty boat, Jermyn heard 
the man mutter as he hung’above the ledge. 

.“How easy — how easy!” then suddenly he drew back, 
uttering a stifled cry. “Curse her! curse her!" and he 
flung himself back with his face upturned, and beat his 
breast with his brawny fists. For a long moment he lay 
'thus, then the blows ceased; he sat erect and looked 
about him with the air of a rnan exhausted with his own 
ferocity, and -great sighs burst from his lips. Then again 
his mood changed. He put his hand to his breast and 
• d^rew from -it a small hunting watch. 

“Perhaps it’s wrong,” Jermyn heard him say.l "Per- 
haps she is late.” 


HIS ^^LUCKT^ MORNING 


G7 


Watch in hand he sat for several moments, silent and 
moveless, except for the nervous twitching of the large 
beardless mouth, and an occasional jerking of the hands. 
Then the watch was restored to its place, and the man 
threw himself down once more and abandoned himself 
to a paroxysm of rage or despair, or both. Jermyn was 
watching him now with increasing interest, and no fur- 
ther thought of making his escape. 

Who was this man with the strong physique and the 
face which was so rugged, so fierce? This was not a man 
to lightly yield to grief; such a man might be cruel ; he 
might yield himself to rage, but I/iis' was something more 
than rage, although rage was there. 

Clearly the man was no maniac, yet such a man, so 
strongly wrought upon, could not be far from the way 
“where madness lies.” 

IV/ial could have brought him to this? What indeed! 
His own lips had revealed his secret; a woman. 

OnCe again the moans and curses grew less, and then 
ceased; once again the man raised himself and looked 
forlornly about him, then his hand went again to his 
breast. This time it was a small packet which he drew 
forth and laid upon his knee, and the watcher saw him 
take from it a golden hoop, far too small for his big, 
bony fingers, and hold it so that it gleamed in the morn- 
ing sun. Gazing upon it with what seemed almost like 
tenderness, he sighed and seemed about to press it to 
his lips. Then his rage burst forth again; he sprang to 
his feet, and with a sudden, wild gesture, flung the glit- 
tering thing over the rocky ledge, and watched it disap- 
pear in the black water below. Then he flung himself 
down, again, the packet clutched in his hand, his face 
buried in the moss, and for long moments he might have 
been a dead man he was so still. 

Sitting hidden among the bushes, with a trailing 


G8 


A SLENDER CLUE 


poisonous ivy drooping just above his head, Jermyn grew 
restless and filled with a desire to move. Then from 
across the river a shrill whistle cleft the stillness, and 
from the west came the low whirr and rumble of the 
morning express bound for Roseville. Under cover of 
the increasing noise he arose and sought a place yet 
nearer the mossy ledge, where he could stand erect be- 
hind the thicket that formed the boundary between the 
rocky platform and the sloping bank; there, peering be- 
tween two ivy-wreathed saplings only a little higher than 
his head, he could see the rock and its silent occupant 
lying scarce a dozen feet away. 

More minutes passed with no movement and no sound 
save the roar of the train, passing now upon the other 
side. On it rushes, dasning by with a shriek, and send- 
ing back long plumes of white smoke, and still the man 
upon the rock lies prone upon his face. 

“If he were to rise now," thinks Jermyn, as the train 
rushes past, “he could be seen over there; let us wait." 

Soon the train has disappeared around a curve, with 
a muffled farewell roar, and then the prostrate man stirs, 
rises wearily, and then turns toward the watcher a 
face so ghastly, so hopeless, so set and desperate, that 
Jermyn, cold-blooded and self-controlled as he is, starts 
and causes the branch against which his hand has rested 
to rustle and bend beneath its weight. But he does not 
heed the sound. He is deaf to all but his own misery. 

“Let us end it," he says slowly, with calmness almost, 
and without a glance to right or left he walks again to 
the edge of the rock and looks down. Standing so, with 
bent head, he puts a hand to his hip, and the watcher 
can see his lips move. A moment he stands thus; it 
would almost seem as if he were muttering a prayer. 

And now there is a sound behind him, faint it is true, 
but very audible to the watcher, who looks toward the 


HIS LUCKY MORNING 


wood from whence it came. The other does not change 
his position; he is lost to all save his own woe now. 

What Jermyn sees causes him to start again. Upon the 
the bridle-path, at an opening in the trees, stands a 
horse, black and glistening when the sun’s rays strike 
his well-groomed sides, and upon his back a woman — a 
girl, dark-eyed and lovely, clad in a habit so picturesque- 
one might well look to see the hooded hawk upon her 
wrist ; a moment he gazes wondering, then the look of 
horror in her dark eyes, and the cry that breaks from 
her lips causes him to turn. 

The man upon the ledge has turned half around with 
his weight poised above the black water, and jagged 
rocks below, and is pressing a pistol to his temple. 

*'Joer 

The man stands, his hand arrested, with the finger 
pressing upon the trigger; looks, sees the black horse 
bound forward, takes a step toward it and away from 
the rock^s edge and deliberately fires. 

But he does not fall, and in another moment she has 
sprung from her saddle and snatched the weapon from 
his hand. 

E. Percy Jermyn is not a coward, and he stands self- 
arrested, in the very act of springing from his covert to 
wrest the pistol from the hand of the would-be self- 
slayer, but the girl has been before him, and now he draws 
back. He has no desire to mix himself up in this drama 
in the woods, and he sees that, for the moment at least, 
the danger is past. 

“But I will see it out,” he assures himself, "unseen if 
possible.” He settles himself again and peers out upon 
the two. 

"Joe Larsen,” says the girl, her voice sweet but cold, 
"what were you about to do? Is this what you asked 
me here to see?” 


70 


A SLENDER CLUE 


The man’s head had sunk upon his breast, all the fire, 
all the bitterness, had died out of his face; he looked 
abashed, humbled. 

“I could not bear it," he said gaspingly. "The sus- 
pense was too much. 1 thought you were not coming, and 
I had sworn" — he lifted his head and looked her in the 
face suddenly, while a sullen light came into his eyes — 
"you know what I have sworn.” 

"Oh yes, I know what you have sworn !" There was fire 
in her eyes, and contempt in her voice. "You have sworn 
that I shall have no peace in my home. That unless I 
consent to be your wife I shall have no home. You have 
sworn to persecute me, and you have persecuted me, until 
you have driven me almost as mad as yourself. Bah! " she 
struck her dainty foot upon the rock and smote her hands 
together in an excess of fury; "what instinct is it that 
makes us fools? why did I rush to snatch this pistol?” She 
had flung the weapon down, and now she spurned it with 
her foot. "Why did your aunt meddle with your weap- 
ons? It seems there is not room enough in this world 
for you and I. I am tired of your persecutions, Joe Lar- 
sen! Great heavens! why did you write me to meet you 
here to-day; and why did I come?" 

She flung out her hands in an angry gesture, moved a 
pace back and leaned against the side of her beautiful 
horse, clinching and unclinching her little gloved hands. 

"Don’t come nearer,” she hissed; "say what you have 
to say, for it’s your last chance! you have driven me to 
desperate measures.” 

The sight of her anger had seemed to allay his own. 
He seemed to have controlled himself, but the fire smol- 
dered in his eyes, and his fingers clutched each other con- 
vulsively. 

"And that means — Old March?” 

*Tt mfeans Mr. March.” 


‘^LUCKY'^ MORNING 


71 


"Bertha, listen to me! Tell me why have you changed 
so? What have I done? You were my promised wife 
for two long years; you have worn my ring; see, I have 
your letters. Tell me what has changed you?” He 
uttered these words slowly like one who held back his 
temper by force. The blood came and went in his face; 
his voice was harsh and broken. Looking at him with 
a scientist’s interest in human nature, Jermyn said to 
himself: 

"That man is ready to embrace her or to murder her.” 

"Why? What? I will tell you then — we will go over 
the old ground once more." She lifted her small right 
hand and held it heavenward. "Joe Larsen, I call God 
to witness my words. If I had given you my word as a 
woma7i^ the word of a woman, I would keep that word at 
any cost. You and I were children together, playmates, 
I had no other; when I promised you that I would be 
your wife I was fourteen and you were twenty, I was a 
child and you seemed a boy to me still. Then I went 
away to school. Two years passed and I came home and 
saw you again. Do you want to hear how I felt when I 
saw you, and realized what my childish promise meant? 
Was I not honest with you then?’ 

He groaned and turned his face away. “Cruelly hon- 
est,” he said. 

“I told you the truth. I could not love you. I asked 
to be released. I could have been your friend for the old 
time’s sake. But you would not hear me, there was no 
generosity in your nature. It was nothing to you that 
your happiness must come at the expense of mine! You 
would not release me, and when I declared that I would 
have my freedom, you threatened your life and mine! 
You let loose that hideous temper! You turned your- 
self into a inadman. Since that time what a life I have 
led! Haunted, pursued by you, groveling one day, threat- 


72 


A SLENDER CLUE 


ening the next, driving away my friends, making my 
existence hateful! I tell you I am tired of it all! Do 
you think I want to marry that old man — ?” 

"Bertha! Then why — " 

"Hush! let me finish! Because it is the least of two 
evils. With him I can at least have peace. With you 
life would be a hell. Bah! I wonder if you know how 
tired I am of all this. You have made me hate my very 
existence!" She flung the bridle from the hand that 
had been clinched upon it and began to pace to and fro 
across the mossy rock. 

"Jove," thought Jerm}^ watching her with growing 
admiration. "How lovely she, is and how she hates that 
man! If he is desperate she is reckless; she is ripe for 
anything!” 

"Bertha,” said Larsen still in that same constrained 
tone, "you must not marry that man. If you will promise 
me that — " 

She wheeled upon him fiercely — 

"I will promise you nothing" she cried. "Nothing I tell 
you. Promises! and \.q you! How many times have you 
left 7ne promising, sweating never to renew this misera- 
ble subject; and how many times have you broken your 
word! Only last week you took a frightful oath. You 
would leave the countr}^ you would never persecute me 
again, and to-day I receive — this " She snatched a tiny 
note from her belt and held it out toward him with a 
contemptuous gesture. You 'must see me once more,’ it 
says. Unless I meet you here I will hear of that, which 
\ytll make me regret my refusal to come till my latest 
da}^ and you call it a 'last request' — Brutal! — monster 
to the last! did you invite me here to see you put a 
bullet through your head?" 

•Larsen had been gathering himself up, lashed by the 
sting of her words. His head was erect once more, and 


HIS ^^LUCKY’' MORNING 


71 


the great veins stood out upon his temples. Once again 
the dangerous light was in his eye. With one stride he 
placed himself directly before her, facing her with folded 
arms. 

“You say you are tired of this," he said between his 
teeth. 'V am tired of ib too. That is why I sent for 
you. I wanted to make one more effort, and I had de- 
termined, if I failed this time, to end it as I should have 
done if you had not come — almost too late — I asked you 
to come at seven, and I thought you had failed 
me." 

“Indeed!” she sneered. 

"This is what I wanted to say — to ask. You have said, 
I have heard you say it often, that you hated the country, 
you hated a farmer’s life.” 

“I do!” flashed she. 

“And that was one of your reasons for refusing me.” 

“One of the least," 

“It never occurred to you that I might leave the farm. 
Bertha, you have longed for the city and its gayeties. 
Marry me and I will sell the farm, I will take all that 
is mine and we will go to the city; I can do something 
there. You shall have a home such as you long for. 
You can use your own money just as you please. Let 
us leave this place. I swear you shall live as you will — 
only be my wife. I will never interfere with your pleas- 
ures. I only want you," 

The girl laughed scornfully. 

“And if I refuse?” 

He lifted his hand in a sudden fierce gesture. “You say 
I have broken many promises. But I will not break 
this one: If you marry that man I will kill him, and I 
will kill myself. I swear it; a moment ago, in my des- 
peration, I was ready to fling away my life; I will never 
live without you. But, before I go, I will kill the man 


74 


A SLENDER CLUE 


who fills the place which is rightlully mine; if you mar- 
ry that man you sign his death-warrant, ” 

This time there was no laughter, and through the ivy 
leaves Jermyn could see that her face was ghastly pale. 

“Ah,” said her tormentor. “I see’ you believe m^, 
this time.” 

“Yes, Joseph Larsen, I believe you; why should I not, 
when I know you capable of all manner of baseness? of 
everything but generosity! Why am / not included in 
your list of victims?” 

“Don’t tempt me; don’t goad me too far.” 

“Listen to me, sir, and don’t fancy that I fear for 
myself. No man shall become a sacrifice for me. You 
have gone too far. Since I must, I must — I shall be 
neither your wife nor his. I will act upon your sugges- 
tion; but I will go alone!” She turned and placed a 
hand upon her saddle as if to mount. 

"Stop!" he fairly howled seizing her by the arm. “What 
do you mean? tellrne!" He shook her as if she were a 
reed in his fierce grasp. 

Swift as a flash she turned upon him. Her anger had 
broken bounds, and a tiny pistol flashed in the sunlight 
almost touching his brow. 

“Take away your hands, ” she cried, “instantly — instantly! 
Fool, did you think I would come here unarmed, knowing 
you? Ah,” as his hand fell away from her krm. "My 
weapon is loaded by my own hand. Stand out of my 
way, Joe Larsen; you have persecuted me enough! Do 
your worst. I will never ^<?^you, never speak to you from 
this day. ” 

Again she turned toward her horse, but he sprang 
before her. 

“Not yet!” he hissed. “You say you will go away 
and alone. I say you shall not! Do you think you can 
escape me like that? Go if you will! you can not go 



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HIS LUCKY MORNING 


75 


where I will not follow! there! mount your, horse; go 
where you choose! I will follow you to the world^s end ; 
escape me if you can." 

Without a word she turned and walked to the edge of 
the rock; standing there for so long that the man be- 
came impatient, her face turned riverward, the little 
pistol still in her hand; then she turned and came 
toward him. 

“Joe," she said, in a strangely altered tone, "you and 
I must end this matter in some way; you are spoiling 
my life — " 

“And you have spoiled mine — ’’ 

She made an impatient gesture. 

"Drop heroics if you can, and listen. If I must give 
up my marriage I shall have to leave Upton; and if I 
must choose between you as companion or — shadow — " 

She caught her breath, and struck her foot fiercely 
upon the rock beneath it. 

“Go!” she cried. “Leave me in peace for an hour. I 
want to be alone! I want to think! Go, I say! Unless 
you do, I will end all here and now." She lifted the 
little pistol and the man cried out: 

"Stop Bertha! I will go if you will promise — " 

"I promise to give you an answer — of some sort — in 
one hour\ now go — go! and mind you do not spy upon 
me! Go to the farm and tell Susan that I shall not 
come home till noon. In an hour you will find me here." 

For a long moment he looked at her in silence. 
Then — 

“Promise me not to leave this spot," he said, "and I 
will go to Susan, and will not spy upon you. At least 
Bertha Warham, 2 have never lied to you.” 

"I promise,” she said between her teeth, and turned 
her face toward the water. 

When she turned back again he was gone, and tears 


70 


A SLENDER CLUE 


were coursing down her cheeks. “Oh," she cried, 
clinching her hands and tossing them aloft, “if he had 
not gone I should have killed him or flung m3^self from 
off that ledge. Curse him! Oh, how I hate hi?n\ What 
have I done that I must be so beset. Oh if something — 
if someone could show me a path to freedom, anything, 
anyihmg\ ” Again her hands went out in a wild gesture, 
and then the tears began to flow and sobs to shake her 
frame. “Oh!” she sobbed, dropping her head upon her 
hands. “For help! for help!" 

There was a rustling of the bushes near at hand and 
she sprang back with the little pistol clinched and half- 
upraised. 

Before her stood, not Joe Larsen, but a stranger, with 
a handsome blonde face and courtly manner. 

“Pardon me,” he said in his Jow cultured tone; “I have 
chanced to be a witness to all that has passed here. 
You are in distress. Let me help you. I am a stranger 
in Roseville, a student; I came to the village for quiet 
and that I might study. Will you let me talk with you? 
You have my sympathy. If you will, you shall have my 
aid. Let me give you my card.” She took the card 
and read thereon the name “A". Percy written in pencil. 
She gazed at him intently for a moment’s space. Then 
her old daring came back, and she met his overture with 
a reckless frankness. 

“If you have heard all, you know that I have but one 
little hour in which to decide my fate. Advice cannot 
help me. It is a problem that I must solve.” 

“And that problem?” he fell in with her abrupt mood, 
but kep,t his gentle deprecating tone, “may I hear it?” 

“How else can you help me? It is this: how may I 
escape, first from my husband that was to be, from my 
guardian and step-mother, and, last and most difficult, 
from Joe Larsen? Can you tell me how?” She threw 


HIS ^^LUCKY^' MORNING 


11 


back her beautiful head and looked him full in the face 
“I was never called a coward,” she went on, “but I 
do fear that man I believe he meant all that he has 
said.” 

‘ And so do I.” 

“Then you see my position. I cannot marry a kind 
old man and put his life in danger. If I refuse him I shall 
quarrel with my guardian, who is set upon this match; 
even if there were no Joseph Larsen, I could not remain 
at home and endure his rages, and the taunts and sneers 
of my step-mother. If I go out into the world alone, I 
shall be more than ever at the mercy of Joe Larsen. 
There,” she finished bitterly, "that is my position; 
can you help me?” 

‘T can,” he said firmly, “and with your consent and 
co-operation, I will.” He held out his hand but she 
kept her eyes fixed upon his face, and, ignoring the ex- 
tended palm, asked: 

“How?” 

He dropped the hand and drew himself a trifle more 
erect. 

"Asa gentleman may, and can,” he answered with dig- 
nity. "Only thus: you are cruelly placed and I long to 
aid you. But — you must trust me, and you must let me 
ask you some questions that may sound strangely.’ 

"Oh!” she caught at the tiny watch hidden away in 
her velvet bodice. “How fast the time is flying," she 
said hurriedly. “Here’s my hand, sir. Ask what you 
will. ” 

“Thanks. First then, we will suppose that you are 
about to flee, and that all is ready. Tell me, are you 
prepared financially? you will need money, and I — ” 

“Stop;” she cried. “Let us settle this. I have fif- 
ceen thousand dollars in my own right from my mother, 
it was put into the care of my guardian. The money 


6 


78 


A SLENDER CLUE 


to come into my hands thus: — five thousand dollars 
when I became eighteen; that was a year ago — almost. 
The remainder, when I was married, or, in any case, at 
twenty-one; much was left to my guardian^ s discretion. 
When I was eighteen, he built a new house, and I used 
a part of my five thousand to fit up my own room after 
my own fancy. When the day of my marriage was set, 
the balance, over ten thousand dollars was paid into my 
hands. My guardian is an eccentric man. ‘Here is 
your dower, Bertha, take it and let your future husband 
hold it in trust for you,’ he said. The money is in my 
desk; twelve thousand in all. I am not in need of 
money, Mr. Jermyn." 

"For your sake I am glad. But were it otherwise, 1 
could have been your banker, for a more modest sum — 
that is. Once more; will your going be too great a 
blow to your friends?” 

"My guardian, as I have said, is eccentric, wrapped 
up in himself. I have no reason to think that he would 
regret me deeply or long;” she spoke bitterly. "The old 
man whose wife I was to be, is too staid, too formal 
and proper, to grieve overmuch; my step-mother will 
rejoice, and exert herself to console my father. The one 
soul who will sincerely regret me is Susan, good prim old 
maid that she is! a. distant relative who exchanges faith- 
ful services and caustic speeches for a none too cheerful 
home among us. As for Larsen — we will not speak of 
him. ” 

"We need not. Another thing; when you go, shall 
you leave an explanation behind you? Or shall it be a 
flitting, shrouded in mystery ; consider well. You may 
wish to return.” 

"I had not thought of that.” She was silent for a long 
moment. 

"Advise me,” she said. "Time flies.” 


HIS LUCKY MORNING 


70 


"You wish above all things to escape from this fellow, 
Larsen? ’’ 

"Yes, yes!" 

"Then why not disappear? Why let blame attach to 
• yourself? " 

"What do you mean?" 

"This: You must have an assistant whom you can 
trust. You must leave your, room in disorder. Make 
it look like a case of abduction, or perhaps, robbery. 
Instead of denouncing you, leave them regretting you; 
Larsen among the rest.^^ 

"But how, how? Quick! the hour is almost gone; have 
you a definite plan?” 

"By to-morrow I shall have one." 

"And Joe Larsep! he will come soon, what shall I say 
to him? Quicl^! someone is coming! Tell me." She 
made a movement toward her horse, and Jermyn sprang 
back and half-buried himself among the vines. 

"Tell him," he said in a sibilant half-whisper, "that 
if he will obey you in everything, and keep your secret ^ 
you will go with him to the city." 

"What! are you mad or mocking me?" 

"Neither. Trust me. Tell him this, and make him 
your tool. I know .can act your part. For the rest 
meet me here to-morrow. I will make all clear to you. " 

Again he put out his hand and she laid her own within 
it. In another moment Joseph Larsen’s hulking form 
canve into sight, hastening down the bridle path. 

Setting her teeth and clinching her hand about the lit- 
tle riding-whip, Bertha sprang to her saddle and rode 
to meet him. 

When both were out of sight, Jermyn came out again 
upon the rock, looked about him until he found a suit- 
able stone, took from his pocket a fish-line, and tied it 
fast to the weight. Then he lay down and lowered the 


80 


A SLENDER CLUE 


stone slowly into the water lying so dark and still about 
the jagged rocks. 

“Deep!” he muttered. “Deeper than I thought; deep 
enough!" He got up and threw away the stone. 

“My friend Larsen,” he soliloquized, "you are a fooi! 
It is only a fool who breathes his threatenings aloud;" 
he wound up his line and went back to his jaunty boat. 
“Another day,” he said to himself, as he took up his 
oars. “I must investigate this place further; ” he dipped 
his oars, and his lips shut in a straight, thin line. 
His eyes were half closed after a fashion habitual to 
him when thinking deeply, but they lost nothing going 
on about him. 

His brow was bent until a tiny wrinkle marred the 
easy suavity usual to his face. And all the way to Rose- 
ville the wrinkle held its place. But a^s he came in sight 
of the village and opposite the carriage drive beside the 
river, the face relaxed — the wrinkle disappeared. 

“It has been a lucky morning,” he murmured as hr 
turned his boat shoreward. “I begin to think that 1 
have reall}^ fallen upon my feet." 


CHAPTER VIII 


IN PREPARATION 

“I have had an adventure,!’ said Mr. Jermyn, entering 
Brian’s office late in the afternoon, so late indeed, that 
he found the editor alone, and, for once, unoccupied. 

“An adventure — in Roseville”? 

“Not quite. And really it was not my adventure. It 
was the adventure, drama or tragedy, as it may turn out, 
of a young lady. Do your country lovers usually meet 
in dingly dells, and threaten each other?” 

“Well, not always. Have a cigar, and may it make you 
communicative. Will it do for an item?" 

Jermyn smiled as he accepted a cigar. 

“How prosaic. But you shall judge. Imagine me 
half a. dozen miles down the river at an early hour this 
morning, armed with a book or two, my boat moored, 
myself seated in a thicket, shaded and sheltered; the 
river at my feet and a huge table-like rock, moss-covered 
and towering above the river, at my left hand.” 

“Death Rock, eh?" 

“Is thai its name? and why Death Rock?” 

“Because it is said that long ago, an Indian maiden, 
to escape her white pursuers, sprang from it and was 
drowned in the deep pool below.” 

“Is it then so deep?” 

“It is very deep, just there; besides, it is said there 
is a subterranean stream far down, with a strong suction. 
The Indian maiden, so says tradition, although she 
was seen to make the leap, was never found. But come. 


82 


A SLENDER CLUE 


you were near the Rock, what happened? Did you see 
the Indian maiden?" 

"Worse. I saw a meeting between two who had been 
lovers. They had quarreled and there seems to have been 
a rival; I heard some very stormy words, and judged 
myself de trop. I heard the man swear to kill his rival 
and then himself, unless she at once discarded that rival. 
His lookv72iS horrible, and his manner that of ^a madman. 
It was no ordinary lovers’ quarrel. I am inclined to 
believe the fellow was capable of all he threatened to 
do." 

"Describe him,” said Brian. 

“Big, swarthy, with coarse black hair, fierce dark eyes, 
smooth-shaven, and with a heavy jaw and cruel mouth; 
he moved with an habitual droop of the shoulders, and 
his manner was as uncouth as his tones were deep and 
harsh. She called him — Joe. Perhaps you know him?” 

"I recognize him from the description. It must have 
been a fellow named Joe Larsen. He lives at, or near, 
Upton, some twelve miles away. It is not in our county, 
and I seldom visit the place. And the lady?" 

"I can only say that she was graceful and spirited, 
with a charming voice. His superior, I should think." 

"Larsen has an unsavory reputation and a beastly tem- 
per. I once heard of his killing a fine saddle-horse in 
the most brutal manner in one of his rages. He has 
some money and a few more or less influential friends. 
But for this he would be outcast from all society. 
I have heard that he was engaged to a beautiful girl, 
the daughter of an eccentric farmer. How did the quar- 
rel end?" 

"That I cannot tell — she seemed defiant, and she 
taunted him as only a woman can." 

"If 7ny sister had been threatened by a man like that," 
said Brian soberly, "I should not dare let her out of my 


IN PREPARATION 


83 


sight. If anyone gets hurt over there, I shall hint to the 
sheriff to look after Larsen.” 

"I trust nothing will happen, at least,” smiling again; 
‘‘don^t add to ?ny notoriety by using my name when you 
report to the sheriff. ” 

“You shall be spared.” Brian swung himself about, 
facing his desk and took up a slip of paper. By the bye, 
here is something more agreeable to be discussed.” 

“What is that?” 

‘‘The Hills are alive once more. The Barings have 
returned. ” 

“Oh!” indifferently. 

‘‘Yes indeed. And this may prove a respite to you. 
Roseville will have more than one aristocrat to talk 
about and adore, at a distance. This morning, we of 
the valley awoke to a knowledge of a change upon the 
Hills and this is the item which must appear in our next 
issue. Listen it is very eloquent.” 

‘‘Mrs. Jacob Baring, and the daughters of John Baring 
Esq. have returned from their season in Philadelphia, 
much sooner than was expected, and with them have 
come a bevy of fair guests. Two nieces of Mrs. Jacob 
Baring, two sisters, the school friends of the nieces, 
Linette and Lotta Baring, and Miss Ellen Jernyngham 
of Philadelphia, the orphan heiress of the late well-known 
and widely esteemed banker, Theodore E. Jernyngham. It 
is expected that there will be much gayety this summer 
upon the hills.” 

Mr. Jermyn’s face was expressive of quiet amusement, 
when Brian put down the written slip and turned toward 
him. 

"An orphan and an heiress,” he repeated still smiling. 
"What happiness for Roseville. Do you chance to know 
this great lady?” 

"Alas! no. Seriously, they say that she is very hand- 


84 


A SLENDER CLUE 


some, very haughty, enormously rich; her own mistress 
and perfectly heart free. ” 

Again came that careless half-laugh, “Enormously rich. 
Pardon me, Brian, but we English have such a differ- 
ent scale of values from yours; now what, for example, 
do you mean in this case by, ‘enormously rich?’” 

‘‘In the case of Miss Jernyngham, I mean something 
more than a half-million. Roseville thinks that immense, 
I assure you.” 

‘‘No doubt.” Jermyn waved away the subject with a 
smile and a gesture, and began to discuss the beauties of 
nature about Roseville as if there were no place in his 
scheme of life for the beauties of the Hills. 

Nevertheless, when he was alone in his room that night 
he closed a long soliloquy by some queer remarks to his 
own face as he stood before his smai! mirror in Mrs. 
Bates’ ‘‘best bedroom.” 

“I really think I have fallen upon my feet,” he mur- 
mured comfortably. ‘‘Who would have thought it — of 
Roseville.” And after another long look at his hand- 
some blonde reflection in the mirror, he added enig- 
matically: ‘‘Ten thousand — half a million! Well, well!” 
He turned and began to pace his small room, evidently 
pondering deeply. 

‘‘I think,” he murmured presently, ‘‘I think I must 
explore that underground stream,” and then, a moment 
later, ‘‘She must not go yet — not yet. Not for some 
weeks. It would be too soon.” 

Meantime, upon the Hills, the presence of Mr. Jer- 
myn in Roseville had made its impression. They were 
sitting or sauntering upon Jacob Baring’s fine lawn, the 
merry Hill party, when the news first came up for dis- 
cussion. There were the two Barings, Linette and 
Lotta, the Sutherland sisters, the two Rooseveldts and 
Ellen Jernyngham the heiress. 


W PREPARATION 


85 


"How absurd!" said the eldest Miss Rooseveldt, 
loftily, and casting a contemptuous glance down upon 
the pretty village outspread beneath them, all uncon- 
scious of her condemnation. “How can people — even 
these people — be so ready to take up a stranger who 
comes among them with a story so improbable.” 

"My poor dear, 3mu don’t know Roseville," began 
Lotta Baring, bowing her head slightly to conceal the 
mirthful gleam in her pretty blue eyes; "now we being 
Rosevillians — ” 

" JVe,” interrupted Linette, "we Lotta?” 

"You and I, sister. Only you and I. You are a Rose- 
villian are you not?” 

"Well,” assented the elder sister, "I suppose I am, 
under protest. Go on, Miss. You left off — ” 

"Just when I am about to begin, Lin — pray give me 
the floor.” 

"Hear, hear!” cried Ruth and Lillian Sunderland, 
with a unanimity often observable in sisters of nearly 
the same age; and Grace Rooseveldt lifted herself from 
the hammock where she had been idly swinging, and 
turned a face of exaggerated gravity upon Lotta. 

"Miss Lotta Baring has the floor,” she said, with a 
flourish of her white hand. 

"I was about to say,” began Lotta, "that we RoseviL 
lians, lacking the opportunities that you ladies enjoy, 
ought to be held excusable if we sometimes mistake a 
pebble for a diamond. How are we to know — ” 

"Lotta,” said Miss Rooseveldt reprovingly, "why do 
you say we? Surely do not class yourself with these 
village aristocrats.” 

"My dear,” retorted Lotta, "you don’t realize our 
position. Lin and I are in a measure at the mercy of 
these 'village aristocrats; ’ do we not pass ai least eight 
months out of the year among them? How are we to 


86 


A SLENDER CLUE 


enliven these months if we may not utilize that which 
is at hand? Really there are a few people in Roseville 
who are not so bad." 

• Linette and Ruth Sunderland exchanged glances, and 
Lillian laughed outright. 

"I think I have heard something of the sort," comment- 
ed Grace Rooseveldt with a meaning in her tone that 
caused Lotta to blush rosily. 

"If you begin to be personal,” she cried springing to 
her feet, "I am done with you — unworthy descendants of 
Vere De V ere. 

Another gush of laughter followed her as she moved 
across the lawn, and approached a rustic bench where 
sat a young lady quite oblivious of the group chatting 
near by, and absorbed in the perusal of a foreign look- 
ing volume. 

She glanced up as Lotta sat down upon the bench 
beside her. It was an inquiring glance, with a shade of 
surprise in it, an unsmiling glance but full of dignified 
toleration. 

"I have not come to interrupt your reading. Miss Jer- 
nyngham," said Lotta carelessly, "only to escape from 
those undignified chatterers." 

Miss Jernyngham laid down her book and smiled, a 
slightly sarcastic smile. 

"Are they undignified?” she "asked slowly. 

"Horribly so," said Lotta bending down to pick up 
a dry twig. "For — Philadelphians." 

Miss Jernyngham looked a trifle perplexed, and cast 
upon Lotta a glance of inquiry. But Lotta was looking 
innocently down at a dry twig, and her companion’s 
face took on its look of lofty toleration. 

"You are a queer child, Lotta,” she said with a smile 
of .patronage. 

Lotta looked up, her face full of laughter. 


IN PREPARATION 


87 


"You don’t mean just that,” she said positively. "I 
lack dignity and repose; I am slightly flavored with 
rusticity — Bourgeoises eh?” 

"I believe that you choose to seem bourgeoises child. 
You appear to take a perverse delight in claiming part 
and lot in this small community.” 

Again the color rushed to the laughing face, and the 
girl turned upon Miss Jernyngham a quick keen glance; 
but there was nothing in the calm face to indicate a hid- 
den meaning in her words, and Lotta sighed and then 
laughed. 

"What is amusing them, I wonder," said Miss Jer- 
nyngham, looking across at the group about the ham- 
mock, as a fresh burst of merriment greeted their ears. 
"Something has enlivened them.” 

"Girls — Lotta — Miss Jernyngham — come here, do 
come,” cried the merry voices, and Miss Jernyngham 
arose slowly, gathered up the train of her watteau wrap- 
per with one deft hand, and, holding her book in the 
other, looked down at Lotta. 

"Shall we not go?” she asked slowly. 

Lotta’ s sudden uprising was in direct contrast to her 
companion’s slow grace. 

"Oh of course!” she said, "hut — I know what its all 
about.” And together they joined the laughing group. 

"Won’t you sit in the hammock. Miss Jernyngham," 
said Grace Rooseveldt, making a movement as if to 
abandon her place. 

But Miss Jernyngham stopped her by a gesture. 

"By no means. Miss Grace,” she said. 'I never sit 
in a hammock.” And she seated herself upon a garden 
chair. "What were you discussing?” 

"Miss Jernyngham,” be^an Grace solemnly, "did you 
know that we have in our midst a real live lord?'" 

Miss Jernyngham started slightly and looked about 
her as if half-expecting to see the stranger. 


88 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“Explain,” she said, with a touch of haughtiness. 

“Grace does not . quite mean that he is here, when she 
says “in our midst,” explained Lotta, glancing malic- 
iously at the occupant of the hammock. “She means — 
in the midst of Roseville.” 

Miss Jernyngham swept the group with an unsmiling 
glance and sat silent before them. 

“Girls,” said Lotta severely after a moment of silence, 
“Did you call us over here because you had anything 
to say?” 

“Oh, we have lots to say!” replied Grace. 

“Then for mercy’s sake say it! are you all struck 
dumb?” 

“It’s our politeness,” suggested Lillian Sutherland. 
“We don’t want to supersede each other. ” 

“Then,” retorted Lotta .seating herself at the foot of 
an oak tree, “perhaps you would better all speak at 
once. ” 

Miss Jernygham took up her book and began to finger 
the pages listlessly. 

“Miss Linette Baring," said Grace, casting, as she 
spoke, a furtive glance in the direction of Miss Jernyng- 
ham, you introduce the subject?” 

“Ahem! ladies," began Linette, her glance following 
that of Grace, “we were discussing a lawn party.” 

“A lawn party!” cried Lotta disdainfully. Nothing hvL\. 
a lawn party. Was all this mystery, all these side 
glances about a mere lawn party?” 

“But this is not to be a mere lawn party. Lot,” vent- 
ured her sister. 

“No,” said Lillian Sunderland, “it’s to be a special 
lawn party." 

"A — what!” 

“Provided,” broke in Grace, “our plan meets with the 
approval of all present. ” 


IN PREPyiR^TION 


80 


"Oh!" ejaculated Lotta, immediately retiring within 
herself, while Miss Jernyngham laid down her book and 
said with her most tolerant look: 

"Pray tell us your plans?" 

"They are hardly developed into plans yet, but of 
course we are in search of amusement; we want all that 
we can get.” Linette looked over at Grace, who nodded 
encouragingly, and then gave her swaying hammock a 
fresh impetus. "So we thought of a lawn party — to 
which we will invite all of the Rosevillians, including — 
here she paused and seemed to nerve herself for the 
finale, "including — the B7'iiish Lion." 

"Oh!” cried Lotta, "that’s your fine plot. I should 
like to know how you expect to get him, not having the 
honor of his acquaintance. 

"Charley Brian knows him," suggested Lillian. 

"Oh! you are well informed.” 

"And," added Linette slyly, "of course we shall invite 
Charley. ” 

"Lin," said Lotta, turning suddenly upon her sister, 
"if Charley Brian believes this person to be an impostor^ he 
won’t bring him here." 

"Who is this Mr. Brian?" interposed Ruth Sunder- 
land, speaking for almost the first time. 

Lotta Baring looked vexed and turned her head away; 
but Grace Rooseveldt came to the rescue. 

"Charlie Brian,” she said, "is the editor of the county 
paper. I met him here last summer, and let me tell 
you, he is not a Rosevillian; the Brians have good blood 
and breeding; they are worth knowing." 

‘You say the Brians," interposed Miss Jernyngham 
languidly. "There are others?" 

"There is one other. Rene Brian, a sister; the pret- 
tiest, wittiest, girl — ” 

"Grace/" cried Miss Rooseveldt; "that odious word!" 


90 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"It’s a good word," declared Grace, subsiding into her 
hammock. "I like it." 

"So do I," cried Lotta, casting defiant glances about her. 

"I think," said Miss Jernygham, with a touch of haugh- 
tiness in her tone, "that we would better return to the 
lawn party." 

"So do I," agreed Miss Rooseveldt, with a very good 
imitation of Miss Jernyngham’s manner. 

"Then,” said Linette, "let me put the question fairly. 
They are having a revel in the valley, glorying in the 
society of the son of an English nobleman, while we — 
we sit on the hills and sigh for new worlds to conquer; 
now it is our custom to give, every summer, a fete to 
the people of the village. Last year Aunt Jacob gave 
the fete, this year it is our turn. All Roseville will be 
invited, and why may we not amuse ourselves by asking 
with the rest, this grand seigneur, who, as a matter of 
course, is an impostor, just to see how easily the will age 
critics can be duped. It is not quite time for our annual 
fete, but the weather is so charming that we can afford 
to hurry matters a trifle. What do you think of the 
plan? Wait. Do7i' t all speak at once; I will poll the 
witnesses. Miss — a — Miss Rooseveldt, you know some- 
thing of these fetes; what do you think of including 
among our guests this — ” 

"British Lion,” supplemented Lotta quickly. 

"This British Lion then; what is your vote. Miss 
Rooseveldt?" 

Miss Rooseveldt was tall, plump, florid; she dressed 
richly and spoke seldom; she was called a stately young 
woman and her discreet silence gave weight to the 
impression. She lifted her eyes with a languid glance 
and said: 

"It’s of no consequence — to me. I — have no objec- 
tions. ” 


IN PREPARATION 


91 


“Miss Jernyngham," called Linette briskly, “now for 
your verdict.” 

Miss Jernyngham looked slighty bored but very tol- 
erant. 

“I suppose he will compare favorably with the rest,” 
she said slowly. “Since you must have the others, his 
presence may serve as a spice to the occasion.” 

“That’s Miss Jernyngham. Now Miss Sunderland 
— Ruth — let us hear 

Miss Sutherland was small, pale and quiet, and in- 
clined to be indulgent to the gayer ones. 

“I shall not object,” she said smiling; “you must be 
amused I see — at someone’s expense.” 

“Ruthie you are a darling,” cried Linette; now Lil- 
lian. ” 

“The fete of course. The Lion by all means.” 

“Good! Now Grace.” 

“The Lion, the Lion, the Lion.” 

“I knew it! You Lotta?” 

To the surprise of all, Lotta Baring turned toward 
them a sober face. 

“I approve of the fete,” she said, “but repudiate the 
Lion. ” 

“Lotta Baring!” from Linette. 

“You!” from Grace, increduluosly. 

“Yes, I! Oh, you will have him of course, but I wash 
my hands of him. No British Lion, sham or real, for 
me. " 

'But it’s settled,” cried Lillian, “we are to have the 
Lion, Lotta.” 

"Oh, it’s settled, of course! I’m only a very small 
minority. I wish you joy of him, girls.” 

A stately elderly woman came sweeping across the 
lawn toward them, and Grace Rooseveldt lifted a warn 
ing finger. 


92 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“Here comes Aunt Jake, girls. Not a word about the 
Lion.” 

“Young ladies,” called Mrs. Baring, “are you coming 
to luncheon?” 

Instantly the group broke up and by twos and threes 
sauntered toward the house, Mrs. Baring pausing until 
Miss Jernyngham approached and walked beside her. 

Ellen Jernyngham was that unfortunate among women, 
a wealthy orphan, with an absent and long-estranged 
half-brother for her only relative. He had left his home 
and hers in a fit of pique when a mere boy, and for 
many years there came no word or sign from him. She 
did not know whether he was still an inhabitant of this 
world or had passed on to another. Becoming her own 
mistress at an early age, she had grown from girlhood 
into young womanhood in an atmosphere of selfishness, 
pride, and frivolity. She was a Jernyngham of the Jer- 
nynghams, nurtured in the pride of birth, taught to look 
down upon those who lacked a pedigree. At sixteen she 
was motherless and the mistress of her father’s splendid 
mansion; at eighteen she was deposed and a j^oung step- 
mother reigned in her stead; at twenty-one she was an 
orphan and the mistress of a handsome fortune. 

She was slender and graceful, with the grace that 
comes from thorough training. Her face was fair and 
would have been beautiful but for its soullessness. She 
was not lacking in elegance and refinement and had in- 
herited a vein of sentiment strangely at variance with 
the pride that was her strongest attribute. 

She was not a favorite among the young ladies at the 
Hills, but they stood somewhat in awe of her biting 
speeches as well as of her fine air of tolerance for their 
littleness, which, as Lotta Baring confidentially informed 
Linette, was merely refined supeVciliousness. Miss 
Rooseveldt, the elder, however, was a stanch satellite 


IN PREPARATION 


98 


and a ready imitator, for although her own blood was as 
blue, and herpapa^s purse as long, as was Miss Jernyng- 
ham’s, nature had endowed her with these qualities that 
make it easier to imitate than to originate, and who 
more worthy, as a model, than the haughty Miss Jernyng- 
ham? 

Ruth Sunderland, too, admired the orphan heiress in 
a quiet awe-stricken way; but Lillian, Grace, and the 
Baring sisters, while they appreciated this splendid 
addition to their party, did not share in the awe nor yet 
the admiration. 

"Were you not surprised at Miss Jernyngham’s attitude 
this afternoon?" asked Linette Baring of her sister that 
evening, when they were alone in the privacy of their 
mutual dressing-room. 

Lotta turned quickly toward her sister with a hair- 
brush poised in her hand. 

"Lin," she said impressively, "don’t you know that, in 
spite of her pride and her lofty airs, Ellen Jernyngham 
would be the gladdest one among us, if this adventurer 
should turn out to be what he pretends. When she gave 
her answer, she was half wishing, or thinking or hoping, 
that he might be the real son of a real lord, after 
all." 

Linette shook out her long brown locks and seemed to 
meditate. 

"I don’t think she has had many offers," she finally 
said, as if offering a suggestion. 

"I know she has not," said Lotta decidedly. 

"You are always so positive. Lot." 

"Well, why should I not be? It’s not every young man 
that can offer her anything that she would deem worth 
the taking. I heard her say once that she could not 
marry a man of low birth were he ever so perfect, nor 
a man of gentle birth were he not in manner and appear- 
7 


94 


A SLENDER CLUE 


ence what a man of blue blood should be — morally, and 
physically, and mentally perfect," 

"Umph!” ejaculated ^Linette. Did anybody ever see 
such a man?” 

Lotta blushed, but met her sister’s eye without 
flinching. 

"Yes,” she said firmly, "there are such men.” 

"Lot,” said Linette wickedly, "if you think you have 
found such a man, don’t let Miss Jernyngham into the 
secret. He is probably the last of his kind.” 


CHAPTER IX 


IN WHICH THE LION ROARS 

The projected fete at the Hills soon became a fixed 
fact, and the talk of the town. Invitations flew about, 
and all Roseville was in a flutter. 

'T have another invitation for you,” said Charlie 
Brian, coming one morning into Mr. Jermyn^s "sitting- 
room,” at the Roseville House. 

Mr. Jermyn lifted his eyes from his book. 

"Another?" he said. "I thought we had been the 
rounds, Brian. Will they never shift this burden from 
your shoulders?” 

"My shoulders carry off very well, ” laughed Brian; 
"it^s from the Hills.” 

"The Hills? I beg your pardon! sit down, Brian.” 

The Hills. It’s a fete or lawn party at Mr. John 
Baring’s.” 

"The father of the pretty daughters?” 

The young editor flushed slightly. 

"The same,” he said. 

Since the day when Brian had read to him the "item” 
chronicling the arrival of the ladies at the Hills, weeks 
had passed, but the subject had never been renewed be- 
tween them. Now, however, Mr. Jermyn closed the book 
he had been reading and placing it upon the table beside 
him, said negligently: 

"There are still guests at the Hills I suppose?” 

"Yes.” 

"Have you chanced to meet them?” 

95 


96 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Ah— yes. That is — I met the Misses Rooseveldt last 
summer, and only last night was presented to the Misses 
Sunderland, and — Miss Jernyngham." 

"The heiress, ah! and you found them charming — of 
course?" 

Brian laughed. 

"I found them very stately — especially Miss Jern 3 mg- 
ham.” 

‘Does that mean that she was haughty, cold, or—" 

"Oh she was gracious enough, but cold! yes, as uplift- 
ed as a glacier. I should say it might be hard to guess 
which she prizes most, her fortune, or her race." 

"Brian!" said the other, with one of his slow smiles, 
"I cannot attend the fete." 

"1 am sorry for that," said the young editor regretfully. 
"I had thought or hoped that the society at the Hills 
might in a measure compensate you for some of the things 
you have endured under my chaperonage in the past few 
weeks — that is — if you cared for society at all." 

Mr. Jermyn clasped and unclasped his fingers gently, 
while he looked thoughtfully into the face of his visitor. 

"I am not — averse to society — of the right sort," he 
said slowly, "and this no doubt is of the right sort. But 
rather than be misunderstood — I must deprive myself 
of the pleasure of meeting the ladies of the Hills." 

"I don’t think that I follow you," said Brian wrinkling 
his brows. 

Mr. Jermyn unclasped his hands and let them rest 
upon the arms of his chair. 

"Don’t you see, Brian, that the news of my parentage 
and all of the stuff that Mrs. Brace has exploited about 
the village, must, as news flies here, have reached the 
ladies at the Hills long before this; and that hearing it, 
1 must appear to them as either a fool or an impostor? 
It will seem to them that I have ostentatiously published 


IN IVHICH THE LION RO/IRS 


97 


myself, blazoned forth my family history, my birth, my 
future prospect, as so much capital to trade upon. If 
you have been bidden to this fete it is because of your 
personal worth and their friendly regard for you. I, a 
stranger, am bidden as a curiosity— something to amuse. 
I can see how I must appear to those who do not know 
the truth, so, Brian, I must decline this invitation, al- 
though to accept it, if 1 could go as you go, would give 
me pleasure.” 

Charlie Brian pondered for a moment. 

I think,” he said, “that in justice to you, I ought to 
explain to the Barings — to tell them, I mean, just how 
you gained your unsought faipe. My sister is a friend 
of the young ladies, and her knowledge of the facts 
would set you right in the eyes of all whom you would 
care to know.” 

“Possibly — possibly,” said Mr. Jermyn. “But I don’t 
like the idea of being set right, nor the necessity for 
justifying myself. However, if the truth will justify 
you in your friendship for me, you are at liberty to use 
it as you choose.” 

“Thanks, and 1 must convey your regrets to the 
Misses Baring.” 

“Yes, they are genuine regrets, too. I hope your fete 
will be in every way a success, Brian.” 

That fete was a success, so far as a faultless day, a 
fine orchestra brought from the city, a splendid lunch- 
eon, and the lovely summer toilets of the city guests 
could make it successful; but the village belles missed 
the lion who had been the chief ornament at all their 
recent social gatherings, and the ladies of the Hills 
missed the spice which the Englishman’s presence was 
to have imparted to an otherwise common-place assem* 
'^lage of guests. 

“Linette,” said Lotta Baring, the morning after the 


98 


A SLENDER CLUE 


fete, “hasten your toilet, do^ while I go wake the girls. 
I want to be in Aunt Jake’s breakfast-room the moment 
they are astir, with you all at my heels. Pve got a 
bomb-shell to explode this morning, and I won’t let it 
off until I have a full audience.” 

Linette turned lazily and looked at her sister. 

“Better give me just a hint of it. Lot,” she suggested. 

"Not a word! not a sign! Oh, I promise it will wake 
you all up!” 

Nothing more could be coaxed from Lotta’s pursed up 
lips, but she wore an air of mighty mystery throughout 
the breakfast hour, and led the way across the lawn, and 
up to the door of her uncle’s dwelling, with the air of 
a triumphant invader. 

Jacob Baring had breakfasted and betaken himself to 
his daily vocations, but Mrs. Baring and the young 
ladies were still seated at the breakfast-table when 
Lotta and her curious followers enteied. 

"Don’t ring, auntie! sit still, girls, you will need a 
bountiful breakfast," cried out Linette, at the first 
movement of the ladies about the table. "Lotta here 
has a revelation in store for us; we have all come to- 
gether, that she may not be obliged to exhaust herself 
by repeating her story.” 

There was a chorus of laughing comment, a general 
settling down into listening attitudes, and then Mrs. 
Baring said: 

"Don’t keep us in suspense, Lotta, breakfast has lost 
its flavor.” 

"Go on!" urged Lillian Sunderland; “this uncertainty is 
dreadful. ” 

"Oh, it’s nothing after all,” said Lotta after she ha 
settled herself comfortably in her aunt’s favorite easy 
chair— "only I have found out why the English nabob 
did not dance at our festival.” 


IN IVHICH THE LION ROARS 


“Oh, Lotta! “ cried Grace Rooseveldt, and, “Have you 
truly?" asked Lillian breathlessly, while Miss Jernyng- 
ham laid down her fork and turned toward Lotta a look 
of inquiry. 

“Girls,” said Lotta solemnly, “I beg your pardon, 
auntie. Ladies^ we — no — you — for I washed my hands 
of the business you will remember — you have made 
a monstrous blunder — the Vere De Veres have been less 
penetrating than the Bourgeoise of Roseville — Mr. Jer- 
myn, the British Lion, stayed away from our fete because 
he was fully convinced that we looked upon him as an 
impostor, and had asked him solely to amuse ourselves. " 

“Umph! " sniffed Linette, ”we will give him credit for 
his penetration.” 

“And he, no doubt, has already given you — no us — for, 
like poor Tray, I must be judged by the company I 
keep — he has given us credit for no end of vulgarity, 
and snobbishness, for listen, ladies, Mr. Jermyn is not an 
impostor, but the flesh and blood scion of nobility that 
he has been advertised,” and Lotta launched at once into 
the story of Mrs. Brace and her •ofiSicious meddlesome- 
ness, telling of Rene Brian’s part in the unearthing of 
Mr. Jermyn’ s family secrets, of Charlie Brian’s subse- 
* quent interviews with him, and many other things that 
tended to make Mr. Jermyn appear to the mental vision 
of the ladies of the Hills quite a new individual. 

“He went the Roseville rounds,” finished the nara- 
tor, “solely to extricate Mr. Brian from the position 
into which, his tact told him, a country editor must be 
placed who is besieged by such a lot of unreasonable 
beings as the set that clamored for the acquaintance of 
an English gentleman who was the son of a baronet. 
He is very reserved, Mr. Brian says, and not at all in- 
clined to push himself anywhere. Mr. Brian speaks of 
him in terms of highest praise." 


100 


A SLENDER CLUE 


A momentous silence pervaded the breakfast-room— a 
silence which the volatile Grace was first to break. 

“Girls,” she said looking slowly around her, “we have 
made a blunder.” 

“Have we not?” said Lotta, who seemed to enjoy the 
confusion she had wrought; “and now — what will we do 
about it?” 

“Write him an apology signed by us all,” suggested 
Linette. 

“Challenge Miss Brian for not letting us into the 
secret before the fete,” said Grace Rooseveldt. 

“I think,” said Miss Jernyngham, severely, “that quite 
enough has been done, more perhaps than can be 
undone. ” 

“It’s too bad,” echoed Miss Rooseveldt. “I knew it 
must end badly.” 

“Did you?” asked her sister; “then why did you not 
give us the benefit of your wisdom at the right time?” 

“Young ladies,” interposed Mrs. Baring smiling in- 
dulgently upon the fluttering group, “I must insist upon 
your dropping all fu^her proceedings. If Mr. Jermyn 
has been misunderstood it was not a very remarkable 
thing. If he is really what Mr. Brian represents him” — 
here Lotta flushed hotly — “we must find a way to con- • 
vince him that we do not misjudge him. But no more 
plotting, my dears; leave the future to me," 

When Linette and Lotta were alone again they dis- 
cussed as usual the events of the day. 

“We are safe enough to leave the Englishman to 
Aunt Jakel” said irreverent Lotta; “she will have him 
at her next luncheon; trust her for that.” 

“If she does,” said Linette, “I know who will be more 
pleased than either you or 1.” 

“Who?” 


IN IVHICH THE LION ROARS 


101 


“Ellen Jernyngham. If he comes among us you will 
see her unbend to his Lordship." 

“I don’ t know why she should not,” said Lotta, “she is 
not so popular that she can afford to play iceberg much 
longer. Ellen Jernyingham is rich and well enough look- 
ing, but for all that she seems to be strangely unat- 
tractive or uninteresting." 

“Most people are uninteresting,” suggested her sister, 
‘who are so entirely absorbed in themselves. She’s a 
regular Miss McBride. 

‘ Pride in the head she carries so high, 

Pride on her lip, and pride in her eye.’ 

“She is 

‘ Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride. 

And proud of fifty matters beside, 

That never would bear inspection.’ ” 

“Amen!” murmured Lotta sleepily, “spare me the rest, 
Linette. ” 


CHAPTER X 


IN WHICH BARRIERS GO DOWN 

How Mrs. Jacob Baring, a woman of tact and resolu- 
tion, combined with perfect confidence in herself, and a 
♦ thorough knowledge of how to do a difficult thing grace- 
fully, brought about the capitulation of Mr. Jermyn, 
need not be told. 

Most of us have met the matron of tact, and know 
something of her methods. 

It was done; and Mr. Jermyn, after just the right 
degree of reticence and dignified ^holding back, slipped 
naturally and gracefully into the niche proffered him and 
became a favored and welcome visitor at the Hills. 

At first he came, and preferred to come, accompanied 
by the young editor; but, after a time, it became the 
usual thing to see him, almost daily, upon one of the 
two broad lawns for an hour, or perhaps two, of the late 
summer afternoons; and Charlie Brian, emboldened per- 
haps by his example, came and went also, oftener and 
more independently. 

If, upon his coming among them, Mr. Jermyn had a 
preference for any particular lady at the Hills, it would 
seem to have been Mrs. Jacob Baring, who enjoyed that 
preference, for it was her presence that he sought first 
and her grave and stately conversation that he seemed 
most to enjoy. 

It could scarcely be said that he withdrew that prefer- 
ence — rather that he extended it, until gradually, almost 

102 


IN IVHICH BARRIERS GO DOIVN 


103 


imperc^tibly, Miss Jernyngham became the object of 
his unobtrusive regard. 

This state of things might have been brought about 
by Mrs. Baring, for Miss Jernyngham was her favorite 
to the exclusion even of her own nieces. The Jernyng- 
hams and the Rooseveldts — Mrs. Jacob Baring was once 
Miss Henrietta Rooseveldt — had been friends through 
more than a generation, and Ellen Jernyngham had all 
the pride, the hauteur, the style and the wealth that 
Mrs. Baring had seen and admired in her mother, and 
her grandmother before her. 

When Mr. Jermyn began to seem dimly conscious of 
the superiority of her paragon, Mrs. Baring smiled 
approval, for, by this time, she was fully convinced that 
he was all that he claimed, or seemed to claim, to be. 

“He has the air noble," she said to her favorite. “Did 
5 "ou ever see, while you were abroad, Ellen, a more per- 
fect specimen of English aristocracy?” 

Miss Jernyngham, after some reflection, confessed 
that she never did. 

It seemed to the others quite natural that Mr. Jermyn 
should find an affinity in Miss Jernyngham. 

“They are alike,” declared Linette, “even in name; 
they are both pale and proud, arid slow and silent — only 
— Mr. Jermyn does not carry his mere toleration of us 
commonplace mortals quite so visibly in his face.” 

“No,” added Lillian Sunderland, “it^ s his one redeem- 
ing quality. In my opinion, if he added to his other 
lofty attitudes, that superb complaisance which makes 
Ellen Jernyngham almost intolerable at times, I think 
I should detest him. Charlie Brian suits 7ne better.” 

“I would not advise you to tell Lotta so,” suggested 
her elder sister. “He suits her better too.” 

“Of course! Don’t I know that? It’s one of my chief 
reasons for liking him. A poor girl can afford to be 


104 


A SLENDER CLUE 


frank and friendly with a young man who is engaged or 
nearly so, to her best friend. It’s your eligibles who keep 
us on our guard, or get us scandalized.” 

“Lill,” said Ruth Sunderland anxiously, "do you think 
that Lotta is engaged to Charlie Brian?” 

‘‘Allow me to possess my opinion in peace, sister dear.” 

‘‘Because,” added Ruth, ‘‘I don’t believe that it would 
suit — Mrs.*Baring. ” 

•‘‘Which?” 

‘‘Mrs. Jacob Baring, of course. Who ever heard of 
Lotta’ s mother being displeased with Lotta’ s pleasures, 
or possessing an opinion of her own?" 

‘‘I don’t think,” said Lillian dryly, ‘‘that Mrs. Jacob 
Baring will be consulted.” 

Ruth was busy at the mirror, enveloping her throat in 
some fleecy lace, and she gave this her full attention for 
several moments; then — 

‘‘I wonder where Kenneth Baring is" she said specu- 
latively. 

"Hum,” said Lillian. ‘‘If you are very anxious to 
know, I recommend you to inquire of Rene Brian.” 

Ruth suddenly withdrew her fingers from the cloud of 
lace and turned to face her sister. 

‘‘Lill!” she cried, ‘‘are you sure?" 

Kenneth. Baring was a name seldom spoken at the Hills 
in those days. He was the son of Jacob Baring by an 
early marriage, his mother having died *at his birth. 
Mrs. Baring, the second, had been, at the time of her 
meeting with Jacob Baring, a widow with one daughter. 
This daughter had been given her step-father’s name 
and been reared as his own. But Mrs. Baring had 
always been strangely sensitive about these early mar- 
riages and there had always existed a feud between her- 
self and Kenneth, dating, so it was said, from the 
moment of his emphatic refusal, when a mere child, to 


- IN IVHICH BARRIERS GO DOIVN 


105 


acknowledge, or call her anything, but his step-mother. 

He grew up hot-blooded, head-strong, unmanageable, 
“the black sheep of the Barings,” his uncle called him, 
and after leaving home and returning again many times, 
he had finally gone “for good," he said, a little less than 
a year previous to Mr. Jermyn’s advent at the Hills. 

Possibly Jacob Baring may have missed his scape- 
grace son; perhaps, at times, longed for his return, but 
Mrs. Baring's sway was absolute and she had frowned 
down the habit of speaking of Kenneth,’ until it had be- 
come obsolete — at least in her presence. 

Lotta and Linette, however, remembered “Poor Ken.” 
with much of cousinly kindness, and if they seemed to 
ignore his existence, it was not because they had forgot- 
ten it. 

In fact, any allusion, direct or otherwise, to Kenneth 
Baring, was sure to bring a look of mystery to Lotta' s 
face, and from her lips sooner or later, some remark 
concerning “Aunt Jake,” that could not have been con- 
strued in that lady's favor. 

Rene Brian was often at the Hills during these sum- 
mer days, but the distance she had chosen to place be- 
tween herself and Mr. Jermyn did not decrease. 

His manner toward her was the perfection of frank- 
ness and cordial admiration, but it met with no respon- 
sive cordiality, and this fact might, had Mr. Jermyn 
possessed the vanity of most handsome men, have piqued 
him into remembering her, when, otherwise, she would 
have been forgotten. 

Certain it is that during all these days at Roseville, 
he continued to speak of her openly in terms of respect- 
ful admiration, and to show her, by his manner, that 
the barrier of coldness between them was not of his 
making. 

But the barrier remained. 


106 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Scarcely a day passed now that did not see him drop- 
ping in upon Charlie Brian for a stray half-hour, sitting 
in one of the editor^ s chairs, and scanning the exchanges; 
sometimes lowering his paper to watch the deft move- 
ments of Rene’s flying fingers, as she stood at the com- 
positor’s case; or to note the pretty poise of her head, 
which, as she worked, was always averted. And one day 
sitting thus and watching her work, a slight accident 
brought about a discovery. 

They had just been examining the mail, when he en- 
tered the office and Rene at sight of him had hastily 
thrust two or three letters into her pocket, and turned 
to resume her work. 

His coming, or some other cause, may have served to 
agitate her, and make her usually steady hand uncertain ; 
for, by an inadvertent movement, the stick fell from her 
grasp and the type it contained was scattered upon the 
floor at her feet. 

As he sprang to her aid she also bent forward, and, 
instantly there fell at his feet two letters and a photo- 
graph, its face, the face of a handsome young man, up- 
turned directly under his eyes. 

Instantly he picked them up and restored them to 
their owner; as he did so their eyes met, hers full of re- 
pellent coldness; his with his usual expression of grave 
frankness and courtesy. 

That evening, at sunset, while Miss Jernyngham and 
Mr. Jermyn were drifting slowly upon the river that 
skirted the grounds of the Hills, sounds of merriment 
came down to them from the lawn just above, and the 
gentleman turned his face in that direction. 

"It’s archery,” said Miss Jernyngham languidly. "Mr. 
and Miss Brian are there I believe.” 

“Miss Brian is a fine shot with a bow,” he said, still 
gazing shoreward. 


IN IVHICH BARRIERS GO DOWN 


107 


"Is she?” Miss Jernyngham manifested signs of 
absolute fatigue. "I don’t know — I am not a judge of 
the sport.” 

"No?” he turned his eyes upon her meditatively. 

"Miss Brian,” said the lady quite frostily, "has had 
an excellent tutor — I am told.” 

"Indeed! whom?” 

"The young man who is said to be her betrothed. 
Mr. Kenneth Baring.” 

She was watching him keenly through half-closed 
lids, but her communication had no visible effect, ex- 
cept to rouse the speculative look once more. 

"Kenneth Baring,” he said slowly. "I don’t think I 
have heard of him.” 

"He is the son of Mr. Jacob Baring,” she said, her 
tone a shade less frigid. "He ran away from home, 
I believe — in disgrace. I — have never met him." 

"He ran away from home — in disgrace,” he repealed 
her words slowly and then leaned forward to look into 
her face. 

Miss Jernyngham,” he said earnestly, "could you — 
think — could you, ever care for — ever forgive a man of 
whom it was once said: ‘He ran away from home — in 
disgrace?’” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE LION TAMED 

She started slightly and drew back a trifle, letting her 
eyes rest upon the side of the drifting boat. 

‘T don’t know,” she said hesitatingly, “you — I do not 
understand.” * 

He drew a long breath and then bent to take up the 
oars; half a dozen swift strokes and the boat shot out 
into the stream, then he rowed more gently and they 
were gliding down the river and away from the sounds 
upon the Hills now behind them. 

As he bent to his oars she lifted her eyes for one quick 
furtive glance at his face. It was calm, as usual, but 
there was a new look of resolve upon it, and it occurred 
to her for the first time that it was a strong masterful 
face, while the firm grasp of the slender white hand 
upon the oars made her vaguely cognizant of an iron 
will commanding all that he did. 

What was he about to say, this man who was her 
ideal of high-bred manhood? whose admiration for her- 
self was so flattering to her pride? 

For a time it seemed as if he were reconsidering that 
which he had already said — that he had no more words 
to add. Then he loosened his grasp upon the oars and, 
lifted his eyes to her face, letting them rest there with 
grave asking scrutiny: 

“I never thought,” he began in his lowest, slowest, 
mellowest tone, “I never thought, when I came to Rose- 
ville, that while here, I should find’ that which must in 

108 


THE LION TAMED 


109 


some way affect all my future. I thought that I had left 
behind me my own personality — all of me that was not 
visible in my everyday life. That life has had its 
clouds and its rugged places, and I came to this place a 
weary man, seeking nothing, wishing for nothing save 
rest and quiet. You know, it is known to most who know 
me here, how the discovery made by an ignorant and 
too curious woman brought to the knowledge of many 
certain bits of my personal history, which I never meant 
for the public — ” 

Miss Jernyngham began to play with the fringe of her 
parasol. 

“I know,” she murmured. 

‘T did not and do not desire to make capital of my 
position,” he resumed. “That I am the second son of 
Sir Ralph Forster Jermyn, should not weigh with you, 
nor will it, I am sure. Better men than I, are the sons 
of laborers. I am the son of an English peer, and that 
you may see in what esteem my father holds me, will 
you peruse this letter; it is the same that fell into Miss 
Brian’s hands, the letter found by Mrs. Brace, the last 
I ever received, or may ever receive, from — my father. 
Will you not read it?” 

She leaned forward, took the letter from his hand and 
read it slowly, her cheeks flushing, her hands slightly 
tremulous. 

“Thank you,” she said, folding the paper and return- 
ing it to him. 

“I am the son of a father who has virtually cast me 
off,” he resumed gravely; “and of my own choice I shall 
never return to England — but I am his son and— my 
elder brother, through having led a dissipated life, is now 
in his prime, a broken-down man; should I outlive him, 
I shall some day be Sir Edward Jermyn. I shall never 
go back to my country unless that day comes. And I do 
8 


no 


A SLENDER CLUE 


not wish it to come. 1 wish my honorable brother a 
long, long life. I like America, and the American peo- 
ple; I am content to call it my home. Am I wearying 
you. Miss Jernyngham?" 

She was listening with bated breath and she leaned 
forward a trifle as she whispered: 

“No— oh no!" 

“I came to your country," he went on, “a mere youth, 
hot-blooded, head-strong, unfamiliar with the world and 
its snares for unwary feet. I had much to learn, and 
no one to teach me. Miss Jernyngham, do you wonder 
that I fell into danger, into trouble?" 

His voice took on a tone of pathos; he leaned toward 
her, his appealing eyes searching her face. 

She made a movement as if to speak, but her lips 
closed silently. 

“Your face is full of sympathy," he said softly; “your 
eyes are compassionate, and yet — my courage fails me. 
I wished to tell you just how this trouble came upon 
me — a trouble that has made me for years a heavy-hearted 
world-weary man, living my life alone with no friend to 
cheer me, no tender womanly hand to rest in mine, no 
loving voice to teach me hope’s lesson; ah! how can I 
tell it." 

For that moment Ellen Jernyngham was what sweeter, 
simpler souls may be always, a self-forgetting, sympa- 
thetic woman. 

“Do not tell it! " she cried impulsively. “Do not tell 
it, I beg! " 

“If I ever tell it," he said slowly, “it must be now. It 
is the best time. It need never be recalled then." 

“It need never be recalled now," she said. “Why 
should you call up a sorrowful past and bring to yourself 
new pain — for me?" 

“For you!" he said softly, “because what the world, all 


THE LION TAMED 


111 


the rest of the world, may say or think of me is nothing. 
It is upon what you think and what you say, that my 
future — my happiness depends." 

He paused and laid one hand upon the resting oar, 
glancing shoreward. The boat had drifted around a bend 
of the river within full sight of John Baring’s lower 
lawn, and girlish forms in gauzy summer dresses were 
running down the grassy slope toward them. 

He took up the other oar with a half-reluctant air and 
headed the drifting boat inland. 

Then for a moment he lifted the oars clear of the 
water and leaned across them toward her. 

"Tell me," he said, "now before we go back to them; 
can you ever think of me as more than a friend? I am 
not worthy of your regard — no man ever will be — but 
such as I am, will you accept my homage — will you let 
me hope that some day you will trust your future to my 
care? " 

The oars dropped as if of their own volition back into 
the water; his slim hands tightened about them; some- 
thing in his manner, subdued though it was, seemed urg- 
ing on her answer; it left upon her mind the strange 
impression that her latitude was bounded by the river’s 
margin, and then — what trifles sometimes shape our 
future — she caught from the shore the ring of Rene 
Brian’s clear musical laughter. No one else could \diUgh 
like that. 

One, two — three strokes of the oars, his eyes resting 
the while upon her face. 

Her heart and her pride were at war with each other. 
In all her visions of proud conquest, she had never seen 
herself in this situation, almost forced by a will stronger 
than her own, to capitulate at once. 

They were nearing the shore, hidden for a moment, 
from those who awaited them, by a clump of trees over- 


112 


A SLENDER CLUE 


run with tangled vines. In that moment, overcome by 
the urgency of the situation, her pride forsook her and 
she did a simple, womanly, graceful thing. 

She leaned forward and held out to him her white, 
aristocratic hand. 

Without releasing his grasp of the oars, he bent for- 
ward and touched it with his lips, and, in another 
moment, they came to the shore. 

When he assisted her from the boat, he held her hand, 
the same hand, in his own firm, strong clasp for a 
moment; releasing it with a pressure that spoke as 
plainly as words could have spoken, his sense of posses- 
sion. 

The next morning, Mr. Jermyn appeared at an early 
hour in Charlie Brian’s office. 

The young editor who was at his desk glanced up 
quickly. 

“Good morning,” he said, “glad to see you, Jermyn 
Just wait one moment.” He was dashing off a letter 
while he spoke. “I have a word to say^ something con- 
cerning — remotely — yourself.” 

”And I,” said his visitor smiling and proffering a white 
firm hand, “have something to say which concerns myself 
so closely that you re*ally must give it precedence.” 

Brian laid down his pen and extended his hand, his 
face expressive of suprise and some anxiety. 

“It hardly calls for that look, at least I hope not, 
Brian, I want you to be the first to congratulate me. I 
am engaged to Miss Jernyngham.” 

"By Jove!” ejaculated Brian, and then he pulled him- 
self together and said the proper words, but the look 
of surprise still lingered in his eyes. 

“It has been rather sudden,” said Jermyn coolly, “and 
quite unpremeditated, upon both sides, when we paddled 





HE BENT FORWARD AND TOUCHED HER HAND WITH HIS LlPS.-Slcnder Cine, p. 11 





4 


THE LION TAMED 


113 


out into that fateful little river of yours last evening; 
but we fell into a strain of mutual reminiscence, and 
both became confidential in spite of ourselves. The 
barriers seemed to have been swept away on the flow 
of the river. Perhaps you can understand it?” and he 
smiled again. 

‘T think so." Brian flushed and both men laughed. 

Two woman would have begun with the announce- 
ment, and ended only with the wedding; the two men, 
having discussed the fact turned to another subject, 
after a moment of silence. 

"Brian," said Jermyn, "you have not forgotten that 
we have planned to run up to Chicago together, have 
you?" 

"No." 

"Well, that book upon Irish antiquities has not 
arrived, and I don’t feel disposed to wait patiently. 
Suppose we run up to-night, and back to-morrow? It’s 
your off day.” 

And now it was Brian who laughed. "And the lady," 
he asked, "has she given her consent?" 

"I’ll make a clean breast of it. I have already ar- 
ranged it with her and — I have made you responsible, in 
part at least, for the journey. Can you go? I really 
want my book, a man can’t feed his intellect upon love 
alone f you know, Brian. Besides — don’t you see — one 
must buy a diamond or an opal — " 

"Not an opal surely!" 

"The lady is not superstitious, and I believe she 
would choose the combination, opal and diamond. But 
you — is it yes?" 

"If you like." 

"And we start to-night?" 

"Yes," Brian turned toward his desk. "Now hear my 
story. It will furnish variety." He took up a letter. 


114 


A SLENDER CLUE 


awkwardly folded, and Jermyn settled himself as if to 
listen at his ease; 

“It’s a news letter from my Upton correspondent,” 
Brian explained as he unfolded it. ’’Listen.” 

“The town of Upton is in a high state of excitement 
to-day over the absence of Miss Bertha Warham, upon 
the eve of her marriage; all sorts of rumors are afloat, 
and foul play is feared by her friends. Her room was 
found in the wildest confusion and there are other signs 
of violence. Mr. Warham is in serious trouble although 
he still hopes; when the wild rumors have been sifted we 
will send further details.” 

Brian laid aside the letter and looked up. 

“Really! Rather unsatisfactory reporter that,” was 
Jermyn’s comment; “missing on the eve of her wedding! 
how dramatic! Miss — whom did you say. Bertha, was 
it — ? Bertha — why yes,” rousing himself a little, “was 
not that the name of the young woman I saw in the 
woods, near that place, what was it? — that romantic spot 
which I have never visited since, in spite of my good 
resolutions. And that fellow — Jove! sitting suddenly 
erect. Does your letter mention him?" 

“Yes, I did not read it all. It says he has been ab- 
sent, nobody knows where, for some time.” 

“Ah! Really. I feel interested.” 

“I have been thinking,” said Brian, “of all that you 
told me, Jermyn, about that meeting at Death Rock.” 

“Death Rock! yes; that was it.” 

“And I wonder,” went on Brian, “in case this matter 
is not cleared up, if it would not be right to make what 
you saw and heard known to the proper authorities.” 

“About that lovers’ quarrel you mean?” 

“Yes, about the threats made by Larsen. I have 
thought there might be a connection, perhaps, between 
that day’s meeting at Death Rock and this disappear- 
ance. ” 


THE LION TAMED 


115 


Jermyn got up and took a turn about the room. 

"Brian,’* he said then, coming back to the desk and 
standing before the editor with a look of kindly solici- 
tude upon his face, "I would be the last man to put a 
straw in the way of justice, and yet, I do feel reluctant 
to have my name used in connection with this matter. 
Can’t you see how awkward it would be for me? Espe- 
cially now^ for Miss Jernyngham’s sake I would wish not 
to be, mixed 'up in this affair.” 

"Yes, I can see that, still — ” 

"Of course if the case becomes serious, and if this 
Larsen’s name becomes mixed up with it, as it is likely 
to be since so many know of their troubles — ” 

"Oh he will be -sure to be suspected, unless the girl is 
found; and arrested unless he can prove an alibi, I 
should judge from that letter; I only meant that in case 
of his arrest, and if an additional link were heeded — " 

"Oh! I see; you have already condemned Larsen — 
which only proves that I should not speak unless the 
man is accused. Besides, how could I identify the girl? 
No, Brian, if the fellow is accused I will come for- 
ward and tell what I can. But I shall do it reluctantly 
and not until there is some other proof against him.” 

"Well,” said Brian rising and shutting the roller of 
his desk, "that will be time enough; after all I fancy 
if the girl has really met with foul play, and at Lar- 
sen’s hands, there will be evidence in plenty against him 
without drawing upon you for corroboration.” 

"I hope so,” said Jermyn, "I do indeed.” 

That evening Jermyn and the young editor set out for 
the city. 

Before leaving his room Mr. Jermyn reread a brief 
note which had come to him in that morning’s mail 
from the city. It was inclosed in a large business-like 
envelope and addressed to him in a big business-like 


116 


A SLENDER CLUE 


hand. But the lines upon the big sheet were not so ex- 
pansive, though the words were business-like too. 

“My Friend: 

“I am here in safety; please come as soon as pos- 
sible. 

Jermyn smiled while he tore the note into tatters. 
“That was a bright thought,” he said to himself. 
"Taking Brian makes me quite safe. Luck is certainly 
smiling upon me.” 


CHAPTER XII 


MISSING 

On a morning of this golden spring, which the Fates 
were making so balmily sweet to the sense, so soft to 
the aristocratic feet of Percy Jermyn, ten days after the 
interview last recorded between himself and young Brian, 
Mr. Rufus Carnes, smiling, serene, at peace with all the 
world, himself included, and humming a gay little opera 
catch, was stepping jauntily into the office of his very 
good friend, the Chief of Police. 

A little of the jauntiness fell away from him as, upon 
opening the door, he found himself face to face with a 
veiled woman, tall and ample, dressed in rustling silk, 
and filling up the doorway; but over her shoulder he saw 
the serene face of the "captain,” and his confidence 
returned; he bowed politely, stepped aside, and, in a 
moment the danger had passed; the veiled woman was 
sweeping down the dingy corridor and Carnes was stand- 
ing within the captain’s office, leaving that official to 
close his own door, which he did softly, slowly, and then 
turned toward his guest. 

"I wonder,” he began surveying Carnes with an air of 
languid interest," if you never intend to get over it.” 

"I’m over it now,” said Carnes testing with his hand 
the springs of an office-chair before trusting himself to 
its embrace. "It was only a momentary weakness this 
time. ” 

And satisfied of the trustworthiness of the chair, he 
seated himself. 


117 


ns 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“I wouldn’t,” said the captain, going back to his desk 
and sitting in his usual place, ‘‘I wouldn’t be so intimi- 
dated by a woman for — for all the women in the world.” 

“But,” urged Carnes with a whimsical air of self-de- 
fense, “this one was such a very large one. Now wasn’t 
it?” 

“Umph!” ejaculated the captain, “you’re the same old 
sixpence,” and then, as if to rebuke the jovial detective 
for bringing so trifling a mood into high places, he took 
from his desk a photograph which lay face downward 
upon an open record and began to eye it with the air of 
a smart school-boy conning a lesson. 

Seeing him thus occupied, Carnes began to amuse him- 
self. Upon the walls of the office were some lithographs, 
two oil paintings and a collection of photographs in one 
huge frame. In a corner cabinet was a motley array of 
knives, pistols, burglar’s implements and other “curiosi- 
ties of justice,” supposably dear to the heart of one of 
her officials. There was the hat of a notorious and 
recently hanged criminal; the handkerchief found beside 
a murdered woman, and never called for b}^ its owner; 
handcuffs that had done themseles honor by holding, in 
close fellowship, the two hands of a wealthy and aristo- 
cratic absconder afterward released by “justice” at the 
earnest supplicat’on of wealth and aristocracy. 

Near the corner of the desk hung a file of posters large 
and small, and as many-hued as a Japanese picture; the 
one uppermost, and directly under the gaze of Mr. Carnes 
being a bright blue card, headed in startling yellow let- 
ters, "Reward offered" 

All these objects were familiar to Carnes, but he, who 
so often played a part, tragic or comic, as the case 
might be for the benefit of the majority and the confu- 
sion of the minority, one or more, against whom the 
majority had raised its voice, had occasionally a whim- 


MISSING 


119 


sical fancy for doing a bit of burlesque to please him- 
self, and on this occasion he chose to believe that he 
was viewing the glories of the captain’s office for the 
first time, and from the point of view of a novice. 

So he turned and twisted in his leather-covered chair, 
gazed up and around him and finally leaned forward and 
touched the. blue placard with one finger so timidly, so 
respectfully, with such an air of mingled awe and admi- 
ration that the captain, who for some moments had been 
furtively watching him while holding the photograph, 
broke into a short laugh. 

“Sometimes I think you have mistaken your calling, 
Carnes,” he said admiringly. “Did you ever try the 
stage?” 

“Yes,” answered Carnes, suddenly becoming serious. 

“Honestly?” asked the captain with a look of surprise. 

“Oh, I was honest enough; too honest, ” said Carnes, 
a grim smile crossing his face. “Never you mind about 
the stage — that’s a ‘way-back’ story. He settled him- 
self more comfortably in his chair and his face became 
somber. 

The captain eyed him curiously and then said slowly: 

“You’re a queer fish, Carnes. But keep your ‘way- 
back’ story along with your other secrets. It is not a 
bad idea for a detective to be a little ‘remote’ as you 
would say. As Rufe Carnes, the detective, I know you 
pretty well — ” 

“Well!” broke in Carnes, “what more is there of me? 
When I cease to be ‘Carnes, the detective,’ I shall be — 
nobody — nothing. Before I became Carnes the detective, 
I was worse than that. Is not that enough to know?” 

“It’s enough for me,” said the captain cheerfully. 
“Look at that, Carnes,” and he tossed him the photograph 
across the desk 

Carnes caught it deftly and held it squarely before 
his eyes. 


120 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Pretty girl," was his first remark. 

"Yes." 

"Crook?" suggested Carnes. 

One word dropped slowly from the lips of the chief. 

“Missing. ” 

"Umph, ” grunted Carnes still looking at the picture, 
then after a long scrutiny, he laid it upon his knee, 
looked across at the chief and said: 

"Well?” 

"I sent for you; " said that officer. 

"I know that," interjected Carnes. 

"Oh, you do! Well then, what are you doing?" 

"That’s better," laughed Carnes. "I hate rigmaroles; 
a man should not throw away his words — except when 
he throws them after his time. Business is business. 
I am doing — nothing." 

"Carnes," said the chief, not heeding his whimsical 
tirade, "I hear that you have quit Sharp’s agency. Is 
that true?” 

"Yes.” 

"May I ask why?" 

"Discharged." 

"Discharged! you?" 

"That’s the idea." 

The chief eyed him thoughtfully; then — 

"I was informed,” he said, "that you resigned." 

"Well!” replied Carnes, "some might call it that. 
I’m not particular. The truth is. Cap., that I refused to 
obey certain orders, and resigned to save Sharp the 
trouble of discharging me.” 

"Nonsense! you know, and I know, that he would not 
do that." 

"You and I don’t know what any man will do until he 
has done it." 

"Oh, well! I see that the true inwardness of the busi- 


MISSING 


121 


ness is to be docketed in your ‘way-back^ collection. 
I merely spoke as friend to friend, old man." 

"All right. What’s next?" 

The captain pointed with his index finger to the pho- 
tograph that had fallen from Carnes’ knee to the floor. 

"I want you to find that girl." 

Carnes picked Up the photograph, looked at it again, 
then again at the captain. 

"Why don’t you use one of your specials?" he asked. 

"Because,” retorted the captain with a broad smile, 
"the sooner she is found the better." 

"Eloped?^’ suggested Carnes. 

"I said missing" • 

"Umph. Has she a name?” 

"Oh yes. And that’s about all that I can tell you. 
Her name is Bertha Warham, and she disappeared 
from her home some ten days ago — under peculiar cir- 
cumstances." 

"Oh!" 

"For the rest, Carnes, you must wait until we under- 
stand each other. Will you take the case? It’s go as you 
please and liberal pay — only find the girl." 

"Who retains me?” asked Carnes musingly — "parent — 
guardian — ? ” 

"The lady whom you met at my door." 

"Phew! — you know I hate to deal with a woman," 

"Oh I know you — but you will find -this one practical 
enough. I did. I’ll tell you one thing more, for I know 
your taste — there are indications in this of foul play.” 

Carnes took up the picture and looked at it with re- 
newed interest; then, "I’ll take a turn and think it over," 
he said, rising. 

"Wait. If you take the case you are to deal directly 
with the lady. " 

"Oh," said Carnes, putting on his hat and resuming 


122 


A SLENDER CLUE 


his whimsical air, "that' s no inducement. Captain, I’ll 
see you this evening, say at ten." 

Going down the steps he passed a handsome young 
man in uniform. They exchanged hasty greetings and the 
new-comer went on his way to the office. 

He was one of the chief’s most efficient aids, and when 
he had dispatched the business upon -which he came he 
said: 

"I met Carnes leaving the station as I came up.” 

"Yes, I have been trying for him on a new case.” 

"Then he has left the agency?” 

"Yes; so you have heard of it?” 

"I ha^, and from one of their own men. Rather, I 
heard that Sharp had required Carnes to do a piece of 
work which he, Carnes thought too dirty. There was more 
or less of an explosion.” 

"No doubt. Carnes has not quite got over it. Eh, 
Felix?” 

The young man laughed. 

"Carnes is a fine fellow,” he said; "but at the time I 
received my information it was a little uncertain whether 
Sharp would discharge Carnes or Carnes Sharp." 

The captain lighted a cigar and puffed thoughtfully. 
"It would suit me very well if Carnes never went back,” 
he said. "But he will — of course.” 

"Oh certainly! he is too valuable a man to quarrel 
with. And he is not the first man who has rebelled 
against hard orders.” 

"True.” assented the chief. "And he won’t be the last; 
they are hard on the boys up there." 

****** 

Rufus Carnes went about the city after his interview 
with the chief of police, like a man who had nothing on 
his mind. He may have been pondering deeply the 
while, but his jaunty air was unabated; he would never 
have been taken for a man of affairs 


MISSING 


123 


He drank a glass of wine at a restaurant, and while 
waiting he took up the evening paper, moist from the 
press, but it did not seem to interest him until his eyes 
began to scan the column of "wants." There he read: 

” Wanted — Information of any sort concernmg Bertha War- 
ham. She will hear of something important to her if she will 
apply to B j. Owl office. " 

‘'Oh' ho!” muttered Mr. Carnes, wrinkling his brows 
as he reperused the advertisement.” a queer one!” 

He sipped his wine thoughtfully, and directed his steps 
toward the office of the “Owl,” where he was soon face to 
face with the individual in charge of the advertising 
department, who, from his greeting, must have been an 
old acquaintance. 

“Hallo!” he ejaculated, glancing up from what ap- 
peared to be a book,of accounts. “ICs you, is it? Any- 
thing up?” 

“Nothing special,” replied Carnes easily. “You have 
been at the window, Martin?” 

“All day” said the person addressed as Martin. 

“Which window?” 

“Oh there you are, eh? males.” 

Carnes muttered something that was smothered by his 
mustache, then aloud: 

“Somebody has advertised for one Bertha Warham. 
Do you know anything about it?” 

“Wait a moment,” said the man slowly; “Pm just 
closing this book.” 

“Then Pll stop until you' come out,” said Carnes, • 
“and we will take some supper.” 

“I wouldn’t mind a turn at the theater too,” suggested 
the other, beginning to write; “Pve got tickets for the 
“Bouffers.” 

“One thing at a time,” replied Carnes, “and supper 
first. “ 


9 


124 


A SLENDER CLUE 


The advertising columns of the daily paper are often 
used for purposes not sanctioned by the law, and in hunt- 
ing out certain swindles and bringing these schemes to 
grief Mr. Carnes had found that friends in the newspaper 
sanctuary were almost indispensable, and he had con- 
trived to gain the confidence or win the admiration of 
various attaches of the press, who might, in .various 
ways, become useful in his operations. 

Martin had more than once been of service to him, 
and was rather proud of the fact, and he was in high 
good humor when he set out with Carnes, for he was yet 
young enough to enjoy a mystery, and not yet man of 
the world enough to affect to be, or to b)e in truth, 
blase. 

It was not until they were seated at the table with a 
comfortable supper spread before them that Carnes re- 
newed the subject of the advertisment by pulling the 
paper from his pocket and spreading it out, with his 
finger upon the paragraph. 

"Run your eye over that, Martin,” he said, "to re- 
fresh your memory. I want a description of the person 
who inserted it. Was it a woman? 

"If it was,” replied Martin, "I am a failure, for I did 
not attend to their business to-day.” 

"But that has been your window?” 

"Yes, but we have got a new hand — a young lady, re- 
lated to the firm — d’ye see?” 

"I see,” assented Carnes. Then bending forward he 
watched the face of Martin, who was scanning the ad- 
vertisement with a look of perplexity. 

Presently he glanced up and said impressively: 

"I recognize it.” 

"Could you recognize the author of it? that’s the 
question,” said Carnes shortly. "Don’t dawdle, Martin, 
it always ruffles my temper.” 


MISSING 


125 


Martin looked at a plate of crisply fried chicken, and 
toyed with his fork while he said: 

‘Yes, I would recognize the advertiser. I can see him 
now just as I saw him this morning, he was — " 

“Never mind wAal he was, since you have nailed him. 
He will keep; our supper won’t. Let’s fall to. I see a 
man that I know a few tables from us; if he sees me — “ 


CHAPTER XIII 


A TOUCH OF SUPERSTITION 

Carnes and 370ung Martin arrived late at the theater. 
The first act was almost over when they came down the 
center aisle, very much to the annoyance of a few who 
had really come to see and hear, and who were forced 
to rise and flatten themselves against the backs of their 
plush-cushioned chairs, to let them pass to the last tVv^o 
seats in the half circle, just four tiers back from the 
orchestra. 

It was too late to catch the meaning of the first act — 
if a comic opera may ever be said to have a meaning : 
so, although this was a very new and very funny comic 
opera, and Carnes, when off duty was never averse to 
being amused, he sank into a languid attitude and looked 
listless and uninterested. 

In reality, however, he was thinking, not of the comic 
opera, but of the photograph of missing Bertha Warham. 

At first young Martin gave his attention to the stage, 
but the stars were off and a not very melodious chorus 
was on. It was a masculine chorus too, and so Martin, 
after glancing twice or thrice at his indifferent compan- 
ion, turned half round in his chair and began a survej^ of the 
house; first the boxes, then the parquette, then the family 
circle, dress circle, balcony, then up toward the “gallery 
of the gods.” His look was cool and languidly critical, 
just the look assumed by nine-tenths of the youth who 
frequent the theaters, and have not lived long enough 
to look upon this sort of affectation as a symptom of 

13^ 


A TOUCH OF SUPERSTITION 


127 


the callow stage. It seemed to say: "Oh yes, I see 
you, because I can’t help it; you are not interesting 
but a man must look somewhere.” 

When Martin had overlooked the house in this manner, 
from one point of view, he turned in his chair and be- 
gan a slow survey of the opposite side, when suddenly 
he sat more erect, and forgot his languor, with his gaze 
riveted upon some object in the balcony; while he still 
gazed the act-drop fell, and there was a stir and buzz 
in the audience; women began to whisper and giggle; 
men began to fish for hats, and to crowd past their neigh- 
bors in their customary exit in search of the customary 
clove; small boys began to cry "books-o-th-opery, ” "fans,” 
and “opera-glasses,” and Martin withdrew his gaze from 
the balcony and seized his companion’s arm. 

“We must have a glass,” he whispered; “I think he’s 
up there.” 

“Where,” asked Carnes sharply, but without turning 
his head.” 

“Balcony, second row — just — ” 

“I’ll get the glass,” interrupted Carnes, still without 
turning. “Keep your eye on him, but be careful, don’t 
look too steadily.” And he beckoned a boy and secured 
two opera-glasses, handing one to Martin and holding 
the other ready for use. 

Martin seized the proffered glass and leveled it at once 
upon the object of interest in the balcony. It was a 
jnomentary glance, then he lowered the glass and turned 
toward Carnes with lips apart, to find that cool person- 
age gazing fixedly through his glass at a group of ladies 
in a proscenium box. 

“Well?” said Carnes without lowering his glass. 

“It’s the same fellow. He sits in the second row to 
the right of the woman in the big red hat. He’s alone 
I should say, and has got an opera-glass. He’s spruced 


128 


A SLENDER CLUE 


up since morning, but I should have recognized that 
queer head of his, even if he hadn' t written that ‘ad/ 
over so many times, and you hadn’t brought him back to 
my mind by inquiring about it.” 

"Martin,” said Carnes slowly and still keeping his 
face squarely toward the front, "don’t look at the fel- 
low any more; if you remember hwi^ he will be likely to 
remember you, especially as he will see you again when 
he calls for his letters. I’ll have to cut you now — 1 
am going into the balcony to get a nearer view — ” 

"But you have not seen him yet,” broke in Martin, a 
little annoyed at the other’s coolness. 

Carnes made a gesture of impatience. 

"Martin you are asleep,” he said. "If he has a glass 
he may have seen you just as you have seen him, and 
if he sees me with you he may recognize — if he meets 
me again; he may not be so dull as he looks. In our 
business we find it safest to consider a man wise until 
he has proved himself a fool. I’ll see you to-morrow 
Martin, and — don’t turn your gaze upon that young man 
in the balcony any oftener than you can help. There — 
they’re going to ring up that confounded curtain — I’m 
off.” 

And he went, leaving Martin — very much puzzled and 
considerably dissatisfied — to interest himself in the 
second act as best he could. 

"He’s a cool hand,” thought the young man as he 
turned his eyes toward the rising curtain. "But I’ll see 
him to-morrow.” 

But the morrow brought him disappointment. In spite 
of his promise it was many days before he saw Carnes 
again. 

In the meantime Carnes consumed some moments and 
provoked some uncomplimentary remarks from the 
gods, by entering the gallery, having first enlisted the 


A TOUCH OF SUPERSTITION 


129 


services of an obliging usher, and working his way, by 
dint of bribing, exchange, and, in the cases of one or 
two undeveloped deities, ousting by forcible means, into 
a seat in the front row where he could look directly down 
into the face of the young man in the balcony. 

The second act was bright and piquant; the stage 
swarmed with gayly robed maidens; there werp some 
pretty faces, some sweet voices, and an unusual number 
of handsome figures. 

The young man in the balcony kept his eyes or his 
glass fixed upon the stage and Carnes could study 
him at leisure; and this he did, making mental notes as 
follows: 

"Square-headed fellow, obstinate I’ll wager; tall I 
should say from the way his legs are twisted up; low 
narrow forehead, heavy brows, nose big and a half-hook, 
mouth wide, lips thin, teeth prominent, a mustache 
would improve him; chin — what a chin! resolution there 
— No, doggedness is the word. Tanned hands, bony and 
big; shop clothes and ill-fitting; too much watch chain, 
blue necktie, bluet Rural; it’s written all over him. 
He’s coarse and strong, not keen witted, but has an iron 
will. That man under different phases of development 
might turn out a fanatic, a dangerous liinatic, or a mur- 
derer. Ugh! he’s an ugly beast, and he' s the man who 
wants to tell Miss Bertha Warham, wherever she may 
be, something to her advantage! If that photograph 
speaks truly she’s too pretty and too dainty to have deal- 
ings you, Mr. ‘Dog in the manger.’” 

When he had reached this point in his soliloquy, 
Carnes checked his flow of thought, and consulted his 
watch. It lacked but fifteen minutes to ten, and with 
one more long look at the man in the balcony he made 
his way out of the theater, just as the second act had 


130 


A SLENDER CLUE 


reached its interesting climax, and once more to the 
disgust of the neighboring gods. 

At five minutes after ten he walked into the office of 
Captain B — , and said, as he came to a halt before the 
desk where that personage sat perusing a long sheet of 
manuscript — 

“Pll take the case, Cap.” 

The captain looked up, laid aside his manuscript, and 
said with equal brevity — 

“Good! Then ITl wash my hands of it." 

Carnes dropped into the chair which he had tested and 
found trustworthy in the morning, and fixing his eyes 
upon the corner of the desk where a bright red placard 
had replaced the blue one upon the file, asked: 

"Have you read the evening paper?" 

"No. Pve been busy over reports all the evening." 

"Then you don’t know," said Carnes who never wasted 
words, "that someone has advertised for Bertha War- 
ham?" 

" What! can that woman have done the very thing I 
told her not to do?" 

"Do you mean the large woman? No doubt she will 
disregard your sage advice, in some particular; she may 
have instigated this — but, it was a man who wrote the 
advertisement and gave it to Martin at the ‘Owl’ office.” 

"What sort of a man?" 

"A big, burly, ugly, rustic looking fellow — a devil of 
a fellow. But whisht! I’ll begin at the beginning." 

And Carnes briefly recounted his adventures from the" 
moment of his discovery in the columns of the "Owl; " to 
the time of his leaving the theater, at the height of the 
brilliant second act. 

“Well!” said the chief, still smiling at the picture 
Carnes had drawn, "you have not made him out a hand^ 
some fellow. He don’t seem to strike you favorably, eh?” 


A TOUCH OF SUPERSTITION 


131 


Carnes^ face became suddenly grave. 

"When I was a boy," he said slowly, "every sensation 
had its sign, and my grandmother had a store of both; 
a sudden chill passing over one quickly, from head to 
foot, meant that the soul of an enemy was taking one^s 
measure for one’s grave. If that fellow had once looked 
at me I’d have sworn he was taking my measure, to- 
night. ” 

The captain laughed his short crisp laugh, and Carnes, 
rising, seemed to shake off his gravity in the act. He 
crossed the room to a table littered with books, pam- 
phlets and papers, and turned over those that lay upper- 
most. 

"Here is the *Owl,’ he said, returning with the paper 
in his hand. "And here’s the <ad’." 

The captain took the paper and read the advertisment, 
then lifted his eyes and fixed them upon the face of 
Carnes. 

"Youlve undertaken to find this Bertha Warham," he 
said slowly; "what are you going to do about this?" 

"Find out who sent it," said Carnes promptly. 

"That — of course." 

"Go to the ‘Owl’ in the morning, pipe our rustic 
friend to his place of abode. When I am sure I can 
find him again when wanted, call upon the 0I4 lady — " 

"How do you know she is old?" queried the captain. 

"She’s old, or else she is ugly; a pretty woman won’t 
veil herself in that uncanny fashion. She’s old or else 
she’s ugly. Which is it. Cap?" 

“Both." 

"Worse yet. When can I see her?" 

"If she does not hear from me in the meantime, she 
will call here at ten o’clock to-morrow morning." 

"Then you may take her address, and tell her I’ll call 
upon her at two p. m. " 


CHAPTER XIV 


DETECTIVE AND CLIENT 

At a quarter before two o’clock, a woman sat in the 
sniall private parlor of an unfashionable hotel, beating 
her foot upon the gaudy carpet, looking restlessly out of 
the window upon an uninteresting ebb and flow of hu- 
manity just beneath, and glancing from moment to 
moment at the open watch which she held in her hand. 

She was tall and large; her eyes, black and restless, 
were sunk far back in their cavities, her nose was long 
and sharply pointed, her mouth wide and thin-lipped; 
many would have pronounced her a woman of iron reso- 
lution, but a certain twitching about the corners of the 
mouth, a quivering of the nostrils accompanied by fre- 
quent and restless movements of the hands, and shifting 
of the feet, betrayed .a temperament not wholly within 
its owner’s control. Hers was a strong personality, but, 
like many such, it had its limits. She was sure to con- 
trol, when she chose, a will less strong than her own — 
even to intimidate such an one; and she was equally 
sure to be intimidated if not wholly controlled by a 
more powerful mind, and a will possessing what she 
lacked; perfect coolness and freedom from all nervous 
excitability. 

There was a certain richness about her dress, with as 
certain an absence of good taste and appropriateness, and 
a too evident effort at youthfulness displayed in the 
carefully powdered face, which rendered more visible 
and unsightly a wrinkled, sallow neck, encircled by a 

182 


DETECTIVE AND CLIENT 


133 


huge silk ruffle; while the abundance of hair looped and 
coiled at the top of her head, presented three distinct 
shades, and told too plainly its miscellaneous origin. 

When the hand of her watch indicated that the hour 
had come she arose, and putting away the time-piece, 
began pacing the room restlessly. 

Once — twice — thrice, she trod the length of the small 
room, then again consulted her watch. 

Two o’clock and sixty seconds; and, almost at the tick 
of the last, a rap sounded on the door just behind her; 
she turned quickly and opened it wide. 

It was Rufus Carnes who entered, but not the Rufus 
Carnes we have seen. 

The original Rufus Carnes is a big, good-looking fel- 
low, with face smooth-shaven, keen, ijiocking brown 
eyes, close-cropped brown hair, and bluff, abrupt manners. 

The gentleman who enters is a man of middle age who 
might be taken for an elderly fop; his hair is long and 
curls at the ends, just above his immaculate collar; it is 
scented and oiled, and it is streaked with gray. He wears 
a short mustache and a tri^m, sharply-pointed beard, 
both of which are dyed black; gold-rimmed eye-glasses 
are perched upon his nose, and anyone knowing him to 
have been Rufus Carnes, might easily suspect him of 
having tampered with his complexion. He certainly 
showed an aristocratic pallor. In his left hand he car- 
ried a shining silk hat, and this hand, as well as the one 
which extended to the woman a card bearing the name 
of Rufus Carnes, was immaculately gloved. 

Before this shining presence, the woman stood in 
silent but too evident expectancy, holding the card in 
her extended hand. 

Then her visitor said with brisk politeness: 

“Permit me, madam,” stepped within and closed the 
door. 


134 


A SLENDER CLUE 


For a moment the two stood face to face, each seem- 
ing to measure the other, then the woman stepped back, 
a faint smile widening her thin lips. She had detected, 
or fancied she had, a look of admiring surprise in the 
face of her visitor. 

“Take a chair, Mr. Carnes,” she said, after a second 
glance at the card, and indicating by a gesture a com- 
fortable lounging chair. “I have been very anxious to 
see you.” 

Mr. Carnes advanced and gallantly wheeled forward a 
second chair for his hostess, placing it near the one she 
had proffered him, while she in her turn favored him 
with a glance of surprise and admiration; and under 
these favorable auspices,, the encounter began. 

“I am told,” said Carnes, taking from his pocket a 
memorandum and seeming to consult it, “I am told 
that you have lost a daughter, Mrs Warham,” and he 
lifted his eyes to her face and touched his lips with a 
dainty gold pencil. 

“Only a step daughter, sir.” 

"Oh! Oh, that is not quite so sad, but bad enough, 
bad enough.” 

“YSs, indeed!"* said the woman, rather shortly. “It’s 
bad enough and trouble enough, mercy knows!” 

Carnes bowed and smiled and wrote down in his lit- 
tle note book: 

"Only a step- daughter," 

Now a note-book, as reporters and as many others use 
it, was a senseless thing to Carnes; he relied upon his 
clear head and excellent memory; but he had his eccen- 
tricities, and one of these was to commit the overflow 
of his thoughts to paper, in his own whimsical way; to 
read his mental comments to his chief or a brother offi- 
cer, when they were at hand, and to destroy these “notes,” 
read or unread, within twenty-four hours. Thus, while 


DETECTIVE ^ND CLIENT 


135 


the counterfeit dandy played the role of a much admir- 
ing and not too keen officer, the real Carnes aided by 
the pencil of Carnes the dandy, jotted down his real 
opinions, for the secret edification of his real, whimsi- 
cal self, and Mrs. Lucretia Warham looking on, fancied 
him making notes of her conversation, every one of 
which, she judged from the expression of his rapt coun- 
tenance, must have been a note of admiration. 

The real Carnes having launched himself with a 
quotation, the spurious Carnes began. 

“Now, my dear madam. I am sent, as you understand 
by the chief of police, to aid you — acting under your 
instructions, in finding your missing step-daughter. If 
we proceed together it will be quite independently. 

From the time I enter your service Captain B 

resigns all part and interest in the affair. Do you so 
understand it?” 

“It was my proposition," said Mrs. Warham loftily. 
“I told the Captain decidedly that I didn’t want a pack 
of police hunting after Bertha.” 

“You are certainly a clear-headed woman,” said Carnes 
w^th a broad look of admiration. “A man will not need 
the police force at his >back if he can rely upon your aid 
as an adviser, you know. JVow Mrs. Warham, lam here, 
sent by Captain B. , recommended I suppose — ” 

“Oh, most highly!” cried Mrs. Warham. 

“Then, having seen me, madam, nre you satisfied? it 

is your case, not Capt. B. ’s; are you willing to trust 

me? and confide this search to me?” 

“Oh! ” said Mrs. Warham with enthusiasm, 'T am more 
than willing! I was satisfied of your ability after hear- 
ing of you from Captain B . Now that I have seen 

you I am delightedr 

Carnes bowed, murmured something about a woman’s 
goodness, and wrote in his note book: 


136 


A SLENDER CLUE 


'' Bow-wow-wow r 

“Now then,” he began again briskly, “as we are mutu- 
ally satisfied, madam, we will ’hasten to business. I am at 
your disposal for two hours if necessary; will you please 
begin at the beginning, and relate to me the exact cir- 
cumstance of this affair of yours? Tell it in your own 
way, and omit nothing that you think might be of the 
slightest importance. I must rely upon what you tell me 
for my clue,” and then he wrote in his note-book, “Bad 
luck to me if I do,” closed it, laid it upon his knee, and 
leaning back in his chair to3'ed with his gold pencil, 
while Mrs. Warham began at the beginning. 

It had been the full intention of Mrs. Warham to 
tell the story in her own way, and that way was long 
and circuitous, causing Mr. Carnes to writhe inwardly 
and to utter many mental anathemas; but he was stead- 
fast in his role, listening with a look of intent interest, 
which became at times, as the narrative proceeded, sym- 
pathetic or enthusiastic; at others glowing admiration. 

Putting Mrs. Warham’ s story into fewer words, by 
omitting those numerous fragments which were more 
interesting to the lady than to the listener, it ran as 
follows: • 

Mr. John Warham, a wealthy farmer, and by some 
considered eccentric, if not actually miserly, was left 
a widower when his eldest child Mary was twelve years 
old, his second, Julia, ten, and his youngest, Bertha, seven. 
When his wife had been dead a year he married Miss 
Lucretia Larkins, “an ummarried woman of some prop- 
erty,” so said Mrs. Warham. This family had lived quite 
pleasantly, happily in fact until Bertha grew to woman- 
hood. Mary had been married at eighteen, to a young 
and “well-to-do” farmer of their neighborhood, and 
less than a year after this marriage Julia died of a ma- 
lignant fever. Bertha then became her father’s favorite. 


DETECTIl^E AND CLIENT 


137 


She was bright and pretty, and possessed of a certain 
shrewdness which was a direct inheritance from her 
father, and which he rejoiced to see, and to develop in 
various ways. Bertha was sent to a fashionable school, 
but did not remain long; she was pronounced by the 
faculty ungovernable and had openly and repeatedly 
defied and set at naught the rules of the school; again 
she was sent to a distant seminary where she remained a 
year; at the end of that time her father sent for her. His 
health was failing; he missed his youngest daughter; he 
wanted her near him, so Bertha returned and entered 
gayly into the spirit of the neighborhood festivities; she 
became engaged to a rich young farmer who, Mrs. 
Warham felt it her duty to say, was not a favorite with 
Mr. Warham, although she considered him quite eligible, 
and Bertha found him, or seemed to find him sufficiently 
agreeable. This young man, Mrs. Warham did not 
name him, was really, in point of property, the best 
catch in the county, but he was hot-tempered and jeal- 
ous, and Bertha was attractive and fond of flattery and 
attention; they quarreled fiercely, and the engagement 
was finally broken. After a time another suitor came to 
the Warham farm-house; he was an elderly merchant from 
a neighboring town, and this time Mr. Warham as well 
as his wife approved of the suit. Mr. March was an old 
friend of the Warham family, and they brought all their 
influence to bear upon the case; at first Bertha ridiculed 
the whole affair, but seemed to reconsider it; and prep- 
arations for the wedding began. 

Bertha was in high spirits; she was to have a hand- 
some-house, the finest in the town, and could keep a 
carriage. Everybody envied her, and John Warham had 
arranged to dower her most liberally; everything seemed 
running smoothly, when, on the very day that was set 
for the wedding, it was discovered that Bertha was missing. 


138 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Her room was in a state of confusion; she slept 
in anew wing, and her windows opened upon a balcony; 
persons might have entered her room without disturbing 
the household. Bertha was very careless, and often slept 
with her windows unfastened, or open. She had money, 
jewels and valuable wedding-presents in her room. 
One of the farm ladders was found near the balcony, 
there were traces showing where it had been dragged from 
the barn yard, and some flower beds near at hand had 
been trampled as if a struggle had taken place there. 
The shock of her disappearance had prostrated Mrs. 
WarhaiKi. But John Warham had entered vigorously 
into the search for a time; then he too had sunk 
down discouraged, and his malady became serious. 
He refused all medical aid, and began to indulge in 
odd freaks, and to harbor strange theories concerning 
his daughter’s disappearance; and when Mrs. Warham 
recovered, she decided to set out at once for the city, 
hoping with the aid of a keen detective, such as she 
felt sure Mr. Carnes would prove himself, to find the 
missing girl — for in spite of the evidence to the contrary, 
she did not believe that Bertha Warham had been mur- 
dered nor forcibly abducted. 

At this point Mrs. Warham’ s recital ended, and Carnes 
sat pensively gazing at her and admiring the facility 
with which she had talked so much upon one subject, 
and thrown so little light upon it. 

Then he had recourse to his note-book, in which he 
wrote: 

” Jhis woman is keeping something back — she is trying 
to mislead me.” 

This done he said slowly: 

"You do not believe that Miss Warham was abducted, 
you tell me. Then you must have a theory; what is it?" 

"You are wrong,” she answered a trifle haughtily*" 


DETECTIVE AND CLIENT 


139 


"I have no theory; I simply think the idea of an ab- 
duction ridiculous — sensational." 

"But such things happen every day, madam; yes, and 
worse things." 

"I know it ; but not to girls like Bertha Warham : her 
head was filled vyith romantic notions; she was daring 
and fond of adventure. I don’t know whe7‘e she got her 
gypsyish ideas, and as I have told you, she had her fath- 
er’ s shrewdness; only — her’s all ran to mischief, while 
his, he turned to use in his business. Bertha ought to 
have been a boy!" 

"Indeed! " said Carnes with his lips. 

"I’m getting warm," said Carnes with his pencil. 

"How do you account for those footprints, the ladder, 
and the confusion up in her room?” he asked looking 
up from his notes. 

Mrs. Warham elevated her two hands, and turned her 
eyes toward the ceiling. 

"1 doiTt account for them," she said impatiently. "I 
leave that to you, I don’t believe in them, that’s all." 

Carnes closed his note-book sharply, and looked her 
straight in the eye. 

"Madam," he asked gravely, “what is your motive in 
coming to this city and instituting this searcli? This is 
a business consultation ; you and I are partners in the 
business; perfect frankness is necessary between us." 

She returned his direct gaze with interest. 

"I don’t know why you ask that question," she said, 
"I want to find my step-daughter." 

"Why?” 

She frowned, but did not withdraw her gaze. For a 
full moment she eyed him silently, still frowning, then — 

"That is my affair," she said, quietly but firmly. “I 
want you to find her at any cost; wherever she is, find 
her — then bring me word.” 


140 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Oh!” said Carnes slowly. "Bring you word." 

"Yes, bring me word! When I know where she is I 
will send for her father— he will be able to come, I think 
— he is the proper one to approach her. I don’t think 
you understand yet. I want you to find her, but if 
you bungle, and she learns in any way that she is watched, 
or sought after, she will make us trouble. Do you 
see?” 

"Oh!” ejaculated Carnes again, and very softly, and 
then as if by accident the note-book fell open upon his 
knee and his hand carelessly traced the word: 

" Warmer. ” 

"Bertha is a willful girl,” went on Mrs. Warham, her 
tone growing more severe; "she would never listen to 
me nor to her father. He thinks, and others think, that 
she has been foully dealt with. I don’t believe.it. I 
want you to prove that my idea is right.” 

Carnes sat very still before her, hi^ attitude one of 
careless indolence; his eyes were - half closed, and he 
never lifted them as he breathed out his question softly, 
languidly: 

"What is your idea?” 

The woman waved her hands with a contemptuous 
gesture. 

"Bah!” she said, "she wanted to see the world — she 
was tired of being an honest country girl; she didn’t 
want to marry an honest man in order to live luxuriously 
when she could live luxuriously without — ” 

She stopped suddenly and a look of annoyance crossed 
her dark face. 

Carnes looked up, and a smile, soft, slow, full of ad- 
miration, greeted her somewhat inquiring gaze. 

"Madam,” he said, his tone almost caressing, "how 
kind you are! how sensible, at the expense of your 
feelings — for I know you feel keenly. You have indicated 


DETECTIVE ATID CLIENT 


141 


to me the direction my search must take. Thank you, my 
dear Mrs. Warham, thank you." 

And his hand traced in the little note-book one word: 

"Hot." 

For a few moments there was silence between them, 
the woman intently scanning the face of the detective, 
while he sat looking listlessly down at a huge green 
bow that adorned the front of her gown. Then he drew 
himself erect in his chair, and assuming a businesss-like 
manner asked briskly: 

“Madam, would it not be well to advertise?" 

Mrs. Warham pushed back her chair with a quick 
movement, and stood erect before him, her sharp eyes 
staring down into his face, her thin lips compressed and 
twitching; her nostrils were quivering, her whole atti- 
tude and expression speaking as plainly as words could 
have done, the thought that was almost on her lips. 
Had the chief of police, after all her efforts to impress 
upon his mind the importance of her case, sent her an 
inefficient man? Something in the quiet ga^e of her 
interrogator recalled her to herself; she turned her head, 
first to one side then to the other, moistened her lips 
with her tongue, and sank back into her seat. 

A slow smile was creeping up from the lips and into 
the eyes of Carnes, but he retained his careless posture, 
and only said very quietly: 

“I see — you don’t approve of it." 

Her answer came slowly and with a visible effort to 
seem calm. "After what 1 have said, you must see that 
it would frighten her out of the city — if she is in it." 

“Frighten her?” 

"Why not? If she ran away from home she will hardly 
be anxious to be found, and taken back, so soon." 

Carnes closed his half-opened note-book and came sud- 
denly to his feet. 


142 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“Madam,” he said, “how long have you been in the 
city?” 

“Three days." 

“Did you come here alone." 

“Certainly — why do you ask?" 

“Have you any relatives or friends here?" 

“No.” 

“Any acquaintances — think please, any one whom you 
know.” 

She looked at him fixedly, then — 

“If there is a person in this city that I know, or that 
knows me,” she said, “I am not aware of it.” 

“Thank you.” The note-book was open — the pencil 
at his lips. “Now Mrs. Warham, what is the name of 
the young man who was jilted by Miss Warham — the 
young man whom you favored, and your husband disap- 
proved of?" 

She started violently. 

“Why do you ask for his name," she asked with some 
agitation. 

“A mere matter of form," he replied carelessly. “The 
name, please. " 

The tip of his pencil touched the open note-book; his 
eyes, very alert now, rested full upon her face. 

“His name was Larsen — Joseph Larsen." 

His pencil scrawled the name while he said: 

“And the other — the husband that was to be? I — 
forget — ” 

“He!” there was evident relief in her tone. “Oh! his 
name was March, Jackson March.” 

He wrote the name rapidly, then turned toward the 
door. “Pll thinlrthis business out to-night” he said, taking 
up his hat, “And ITl see you again — say to-morrow at this 
same hour." 


DETECTIVE AND CLIENT 


143 


A smile flitted across her face. She had been startled 
and now could not conceal a look of relief. 

But Carnes had yet to make his grand cotip. While he 
was slowly drawing on his glove his eyes roved about 
the room. “You must find it dull here,’’ he said. “This 
is a quiet house. Do you read?’’ 

“A little — I must get some books.’’ 

“Ah yes; the newspapers are dull reading these quiet 
times,” buttoning his glove carefully. “Shall I leave you 
my morning papers? they are not very entertaining. ” 

“Oh!” she said, “I seldom read a newspaper; I have 
not seen one since I came to town.” 

“Ah! well — by the way madam how does this — this 
Mr. — Joseph Larsen” — referring to his note-book — “look 
what’s his style?” 

The look of annoyance was back in her face as she 
answered hesitatingly. 

“I — Tm afraid I can’t give you much of an idea of 
him; I’m not good at description.” 

“Ah — well its not important,” he said carelessly. 
“I may think it best to visit your place, and can see 
him there.” 

The woman’s dark face paled. 

“Why — ’’she began, then checked herself and said, “I 
don’t think you will find him there; he left the place 
nearly two months ago.” 

“Oh!’' said the detective. “and then he bowed 

himself out, leaving Mrs. Warham standing in the mid- 
dle of the room, anxiety, perplexity, and rising anger, 
in her face. 

“I wish I had never seen him!” she muttered; “I can’t 
understand the fellow! ” 

And Rufus Carnes, strolling away from the dingy hotel 
muttered to himself: 

“The old cat! what is her little game? That she 


144 


A SLENDER CLUE 


hates this missing girl is clear. I believe that she 
wishes her ill, and am not at all sure, in spite of her 
pretense to the contrary, that she wants to find her. Pm 
not sure, Mrs. Lucretia Warham, that you don’t need a 
little watching yourself. You’ve put some odd ideas 
into my head, my dear madam.” 


CHAPTER XV 


"it was a gal" 

When Rufus Carnes left the presence of Mrs. War- 
ham, he went straight to his hotel. 

"Anyone asked for me?" he inquired of the clerk, who 
from long acquaintance had learned to know his pecul- 
iarities and humor his brusquerie, 

"Not a soul," answered that functionary. 

"Well, Pm looking for a caller soon; send him up." 

"All right," answered the clerk, and Carnes passed on 
to his own room. 

Five minutes later a slender lad with a pale face, 
watery blue eyes and a sleepy look, entered the office 
and approached the desk. The place was almost empty, 
only the clerk behind the desk and a porter near it, with 
two commercial travelers talking trade in a remote cor- 
ner; but the boy spoke softly, and glanced hesitatingly 
around as he asked, after casting an anxious look at an 
envelope which he clutched with both hands, working 
his lips meanwhile as if spelling out what was written 
thereon — 

"Mr. — Mr. Ca-r-nes, Carnes stop here?" 

"Yes," said the clerk with a grin. 

"Got a letter for him," drawled the boy. 

"All right," the grin became malicious. "Jimmy, take 
that letter up to Mr. Carnes.". 

The porter turned in open-mouthed astonishment. 

"Ain’t you got any bell-boys?" asked the lad, seeming 


145 


40 


A SLENDER CLUE 


to rouse himself. “Cause if ye ain’t, I’ll take it myself. 
Tm to wait for an answer anyhow.” 

“Oh, ho!” said the clerk, “you’re not so slow as you 
look! Do you want that note sent up?” 

“N — no. I guess I’ll take it this once — which way?” 

“Number 40 — next floor,” replied the clerk grinning 
again, “don’t get lost, bubby. ” 

“Thanky, ” said the boy as he moved off, looking curi- 
ously about him, as if seeking the way. 

“ ’Taint no use to ‘taffy’ one of Carnes’ boys, ” said the 
porter as he resumed his work; “they ain’t slow." 

“That’s so!” said the clerk good-naturedly, and turned 
again to his books. 

“Come in,” cried Carnes, in response to a tap upon the 
door of number 40. “Hello, Patsy, is that you?” 

“I guess so,” answered the boy, closing the door while 
speaking; “don’t it look like me?” and he crossed the 
room and seated himself opposite Carnes with a busi- 
ness-like air, that was ludicrously in contrast with his 
general appearance. 

“What’s that?” queried the detective, glancing at the 
letter in his hand. 

“Oh! ” said the lad inconsequently, “that? Why it’s 
the letter I brought ye. Got to wait for an answer.” 

Carnes laughed, and removed a crooked pipe from be- 
tween his lips. 

“Did you write it, Patsy?” he asked carelessly. 

“It ain’t writ,” dextrousl}^ removing the envelope. 
“And here’s the answer all ready. That ain’t writ either;- 
didn’t like to waste paper.” 

Carnes chuckled and bent forward to slap the boy upon 
his knee. 

“Patsy, you’ll be a police captain yet — or something 
worse. What have you done?” 

“Well, Idunno, ” said Patsy reflectively. "I’ve winded 
myself for one thing.” 


A GAL 


147 


"Had a run, Pat?" 

"Run! Why Pve been a doggin’ that feller ever since 
you set. me on! I never see such a chap!" 

Carnes leaned across the table near his elbow and took 
a tobacco-case from the further side. 

"Out with it Patsy,” he said as he began to refill his 
pipe. "That is, if you’ve got back your breath.” 

"Oh, Pve got breath enough now!” laughed the boy, 
as he watched the leisurely movements of the detective 
with evident admiration. "I took my time cornin’ down 
from the home-run — Burke’s Novelty," 

"Burke’s Novelty?” 

"Yes, that’s where I left him.” 

"Oh!” lighting his pipe and giving a vigorous pull. 
"Well! now we’re all ready Patsy. One — two — three — 
go!” 

"When you set me on,” began the bo}^ drawing one foot 
under him and caressing the opposite knee with both 
hands, "I thought I had mighty little to do. He looked 
pretty fair to begin with, standin’ amongst the rest 
waitin’ for his turn at the window, but when he got 
there, at last, and didn’t get any letter, he walked off 
looking mighty glum. He went pokin’ slowly along with 
his head kind ’r down and one hand in his breeches 
pocket, but the other hand was hangin’ straight down, 
and I tell ye what, it purty near could talk. The fin- 
gers kept a clawin’ and openin’ an shuttin’ jest like this — ” 

Here Patsy slid from his chair, and standing before 
the detective with one fist inserted in a pocket of bis 
trousers, he dropped the other at his side and put it 
through a series of digital gymnastics that caused 
Carnes to laugh outright. 

"That was pretty plain finger talk, Patsy,” he said; 
"what idea did you get from it?” 

"Hmph!” replied the boy, resuming his seat and his 


148 


A SLENDER CLUE 


former attitude. "I got the idea that he was a pretty 
mad man; and that he had to let a little of his mad leak 
out somewhere. But I got used to that business/ for he 
kept it up, off and on, all day." 

"What — the finger business?" 

"Yes. After he’d gone a little way south from the 
'OwP office something seemed to* call him to himself. I’d 
a notion that some boys he was passin’, give him some 
chaff about it. I wasn’t nigh enough to hear, for all at 
once he snapped his fist shut like that," suiting the 
action to the word, "and stuffed it into his other pocket, 
and hurried up his walk a little. 

Here the narrator paused and looked slowly about the 
room. 

"So," said Carnes serenely, "he hurried up his walk, 
did he? Drive ‘on Pat.” 

"After that," resumed the boy, "he went on seemin’ as if 
he kind of watched himself, and lookin’ back every now 
and then as if he half suspected somebody was follerin’ 
him, but he didn’t get onto me." 

"No," said Carnes encouragingly, "of course not." 

"Well sir — "with a smile of gratification, "if you guessed 
all summer you couldn’t call the turn on what that chap 
did next.” 

"No?" said Carnes, leaning back in his chair with e3^es 
closed and clouds of smoke issuing from his smiling 
mouth, "I suppose I couldn’t. Hurry up Pat — Pm 
getting ^interested!" 

"Well, sir, he jest went around amongst the hackmen, 
city hacks, depot hacks, all sorts, half a dozen different 
stands; I thought he’d never let up.” 

Patsy paused to note the effect of his words, but 
Carnes smoked on in tranquil silence. 

"He did the same thing with every one of ’em," the 
boy went on, "talkin’ low and makin’ motions with them 


“/r lVy4S A GAL 


I4d 

crazy hands of his; sometimes I got where I seen his 
face and it looked pretty anxious an’ serious; the fellows 
all seemed to know him too, an’ some of ’em that^was 
settin’ on their boxes climbed down when they see him 
cornin’; and before he left ’em he did the same thing by 
every man of ’em — he give ’em all a fotygraff. ” 

“Eh!” ejaculated Carnes, starting suddenly forward, 
“what’s that, Patsy? — he gave them a photograph? Are 
you sure?" 

“Well," returned the lad, looking somewhat aggrieved, 
“Pm as sure as you could ’a’ been in my place. At first I 
thought it was cards he was passin’ around so free; but 
at about the third or fourth one I got pretty close an’ 
as the cabby took it, I noticed him lookin’ at it long 
end up, an’ thinks I, it’s a picter. I had been a dodgin’ 
considerable, now one side the street an’ then t’other, an’ 
next in the middle of it; now ahead of him, an’ then be- 
hind; but the next chap as he interviewed, I dropped 
quite a ways behind him, and when I seen him begin to 
go inter his pocket, I jest squared my toes and licked 
into a keen run; by the time I had got up to ’em, he was 
passin’ the picter slow like, over to cabby, and I sort a 
stumbled and fell right amongst their legs, an’ the fel- 
ler threw out his hand with the picter in it, an’ as I 
rolled over I seen it square" Here he paused and looked 
triumphantly at Carnes. 

“Well!" cried Carnes eagerly; “you saw it — what did 
you see?" 

Patsy moistened his lips with his tongue, passed 
back of his hand across his mouth and said: 

“// was a gal.'* 


the 


CHAPTER XVI 


A BITE AT THE BAIT 

"You’re sure that it was a girl’s, a woman’s picture, 
Pat?” asked Carnes as if in doubt, and rising from his 
chair. "Do you think you would know it if you saw it 
again? ” 

Patsy reflected. 

"Wal I ain’t sure I could identify the picter, ” he said 
finally, "but I’m sure ’twas a gal’s picter.” 

The detective crossed the room, and opening a desk, 
stood for some moments with his back to the boy, seem- 
ing to search for something in the various drawers and 
pigeon-holes; then he returned to his place and tossed 
a handful of photographs down upon the table. 

• "Look them over, Pat,” he said carelessly, "and see if 
there’s one among them that looks in the least like the 
picture you saw.” 

The boy turned the cards over carefull}^, looking closely 
at some and tossing others aside after a single glance; 
at last he came to one over which he hesitated, then 
suddenly he turned to Carnes and held the picture to- 
ward liim. 

"Hold it up. Cap.,” he said, "about as that feller did. ” 

Carnes took the picture and held it aloft, turning and 
shifting it while the boy lowered tiis head, raised it, 
squinted, ducked and peered, all the time keeping his gaze 
upon the moving picture. Then he jumped to his feet. 

"That’s about it,” he said, " thxt might, be the very 
picter. 


150 


A BITE AT THE BAIT 


151 


Carnes tossed the picture back among the rest, and a 
queer smile flitted across his face, seeming to fade into 
the indrawn corners of his mouth; Patsy had identified 
the picture of Beriha Warham. 

“Well, we will drop the subject of the picture for the 
present,” said Carnes. “Now Pat, about these hackmen; 
did you nail them?” 

“I did my pertyest, ” said Patsy, “but I couldn’ t make 
sure of all the numbers. They was all sorts you see, an’ 
I had ter note ’em down on the run; but I can point 
ye out every man of ’em, an’ I tell ye they’re a tuff lot.” 
“ “Did you know any of them?” 

“Wal. Not to say Pm acquainted^ but I guess you^ ll 
know some of ’em; they’re the sort that the police mostly 
keeps an eye on.” 

“Umph!" grunted the detective, then, “where did 
he go next, Patrick?” 

“Wal — it was gittin’ along to noon by the time he 
had got done with the cabbyies’ an’ then he went to the 
Brown.” 

Carnes started. 

“To the Brown, Patrick! ” 

“Yes, sir, that dingy-lookin’ place where most of the 
dizzies put up; close to the L — Street depot.” 

“I know! Umph! go on Patsy.” 

“Wal — he went in there an’ had some hash, an’ while 
he was eatin’ I got somethin’ at a corner an’ jest layed 
for him. Perty soon a bell-boy come outside an’ stood 
gawpin’ around; then I kind a pulled out a bunch of 
cigarettes an’ begun to light one; that took his eye. an’ 
then I pertended to notice him for the first.” 

‘“Hello, buttons,’ says I. ‘Hello you,’ says he, lookin’ 
right at the cigarettes. Then I begun to chaff him and 
perty soon we was both smokin’ as socherable as ye please. 
I had just got him goin’ about our man when he was 


153 


A SLENDER CLUE 


called in, but I had found out this much: he’d been 
there jest a day, an’ he was goin’ away af.ter dinner ; wal 
— I stuck around an’ purty soon out comes our man with 
a grip in each hand an’ he struck off down the street. 
Then I comes up behind him an’ says I, ‘Carry yer 
sachel to ther depot, Mr.’ He stared, kind o’ nervous-like, 
and looked me over perty careful; finally he handed me 
one of the grips, and told me to trot on ahead of him, 
to the Bowers House. That’s another of ’em ye know; 
somethin’ like the Brown, only more so.‘” 

"Yes, yes!” said Carnes nodding, "I know!” 

"Well, on the way we passed the Novelty, and I’m 
blessed if that feller didn’t drive me in ahead of him, 
and buy a ticket fer the matinee.” 

"Did you hear what he asked for, Pat?” 

"Front row balcony,” replied the boy promptly. "Wal 
— went on to the Bowers, an’ he took away the grip at 
the office door, but I seen him register and foller a 
boy upstairs to his room, I s’pose. Then I waited to see 
if he went back to the Novelty. He came down in less 
un ten minutes an’ when I’d seen him inside the theater 
I come down here.” 

"Patsy,” said Carnes, rising with alacrity, "you have 
done well. Here,” tossing him a piece of money, "go 
down and get yourself some luncheon; I’ll join you at 
the corner in twenty minutes; we have got a little day- 
light left, and we will take a hack and go around among 
these cabbies. There!” patting him on the shoulder, "get 
along lively now. Your a little trump, Patsy.” 

"Thanky, boss,” replied the boy, and he went out grin- 
ning with delight. 

"Well?” queried the clerk as he sauntered through th‘e 
office, "did you manage to find the gentleman, sonny?” 

"Ya’as — ” drawled Patsy, "I made out,” and favoring 
the smiling clerk with a wink and a grin he went on his 
way. 


A BITE AT THE BAIT 


153 


An hour later, while Carnes and the boy — the former 
gotten up to look like a slow, and somewhat dull, 
hackman — were sitting upon the box of a carriage, which 
stood among others near one of the city’s thronged rail- 
way stations, a sedate, clerical-looking young man walked 
slowly past them, lifted his gaze to the box, and, for just 
a moment, encountered the eyes of the seeming hackman. 
Then the clerical-looking young man made an almost 
imperceptible gesture and passed on. 

“Patsy,” said Carnes, still sitting immovable upon the 
box, “do you take these ribbons for half a minute; I 
want to look after a fellow who is going to take the 
train — " 

In another moment he was hurrying after the slow-mov- 
ing, sedate young man, who was just passing under an 
arched entrance. 

“Dick!" 

It was only a whisper, but the young man heard it, 
and turned quickly — 

“Hallo, old man,” he said joyously, "I thought you 
would see me. Got a new job?” 

“Yes," smiled Carnes. “Carriage, sur?” 

“Carnes,” said the other earnestly, “I wish I had more 
time. I’ve got to board this northward bound train in 
three minutes.” 

“Confound it! where to, Dick?” 

“Oh, some remote country town. It’s a trip in the 
dark. Colton is sending me.” 

“Colton —bank?" 

“Yes, the banker. One of his clients, depositors, stock- 
holders, something, has wired him asking him to send 
down a detective to — what is the place?” and he made a 
movement toward his pocket. 

“Never mind. Stanhope, when shall you come back?" 

“Don’t know— don’t know what it’s all about. At the 
old hotel, Carnes?” 


154 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“Yes, same old place. They’ve got to know me and 
my ways and they are close-mouthed fellows. I come 
and go comfortably there, they know their business.’’ 

“Well, that’s the thing. I’ll look you up there, Carnes, 
when I come back.’’ 

“Good enough! Hope you’ll find me. Eh! there’s your 
bell, Dick; good luck, old man!’’ ^ 

“Same to you, good-bye,’’ and with the words on his 
lips he vanished in the hurrying throng. 

At dusk Carnes and the boy, Patsy, still sitting upon 
the box of their hired carriage, were driving slowly 
stableward. 

“What will I do next, boss?’’ queried the boy as they 
neared their destination. 

“Eat a good supper and go to bed, Pat, I’ll take care 
of our man this evening. To-morrow you may be at 
the Bowers, and track him through the day. I think it’ll 
be the same thing over again.’’ 

“What!” queried Patsy. “The *Owl\ the cabbies, and 
the theayter?" 

“Yes, with perhaps another hotel.’’ 

“My eye!’’ ejaculated Pat. “He’s a rum un!” 

“I agree with you, Patrick. Now, listen; if he changes 
his hotel to-morrow, you may see him settled, then come 
straight to me. Do you see?’’ 

“Yes, boss.’’ 

“I’ll remain in my room all day, up to four o’clock, 
Pat. Here we are; hop down now and scamper.’’ 

That evening Carnes wrote a note to Mrs. Warham; 
it was a very simple note, and short, but it cost the . 
detective a half hour of serious reflection. 

Thus it ran: 

“Dear Madam — There is very little to report to-day — 
simply that I have made a beginning, acting upon the 


A BITE AT THE BAIT 


155 


hint given by you. It will take some time to exhaust 
this source of information, and, unless in the meantime I 
make some actual discovery, it will be as well if we do 
not meet. You, of course, do not desire to have your 
business known, and have no wish to attract too much 
attention to yourself. One question 1 failed to ask — that 
is: how long shall you remain in this city? It is important 
that I consult you once more at least before you go. 

“Respectfully, R. F. Carnes.” - 

“O. — Home. May 12th, 18 " 

This note as may be surmised reposed upon the desk 
of the detective until noon of the^day following, at 
which time he dispatched it by a trusted messenger. 

He had assured himself, by scanning the columns of 
the morning ^Owl,^ that the programme of the previous 
day was to be repeated, for there he found as on the day 
before, the advertisement for missing Bertha Warham. 
Patsy was at the heels of the ‘rum un% and Carnes 
feeling no uneasiness with this active urchin in the field, 
passed his morning in luxurious idleness, lounging, smok- 
ing, scanning the morning papers, and humming frag- 
ments of melody that were rhythmic, rather than class- 
ical. 

A little to his surprise the messenger who had 
waited upon Mrs. Warham with the detective’s letter 
returned in a state of fatigue and with shortened breath- 
ing that indicated beyond need of explanation the haste 
in which he had come. He brought a note from Mrs. 
Warham and laid it breathlessly in the hand out- 
stretched to take it. 

"Umph!" muttered Carnes under his breath as he tore 
open the envelope. "She has taken the bait, of course/" 

But this is all that the note contained — 


156 


A SLENDER CLUE 


have just made a startling discovery. Come at once. 

“Z. 

While he yet meditated over this mysterious message, 
Patsy presented himself, and the detective^s face bright- 
ened. 

“Ah, Patsy,” he said; “you’re in the nick o’ time;” 
twisting the note into a cigar-lighter, then untwisting it 
and putting it carefully in his pocket. “What’s the news, 
boy? ” 

“He’s moved,” said Patsy, seating himself as on the 
previous day. 

“Moved, has he? Where now?” 

“Galloway House, way over on K — Street." 

“Oh — ho! The Galloway! well, Pat?” 

“He went to the ‘Owl’, fust thing — ” 

“Of course!” impatiently. 

“Then to the cabbies, jest the same deal only not the 
fotygraff — ” 

“Yes.” 

“He seemed to take things a little easier; gettin’ used 
to it, I s’ pose. ” 

“I suppose so. Hurry up, Pat.” 

“Next he went straight to the Bowers, settled his 
bill, an’ took a hack to the Galloway.” 

“Oh, ho!” 

“When I seen him go in to dinner,” concluded Patsy, 
“I made tracks for here ’cordin’ to orders. " 

“Well done, my boy. Now go back even faster than 
you came, and see if you can’t catch him before he comes 
from dinner. Keep at his heels until six o’clock, sup- 
per time. I will relieve you then. Can you hold out, 
Pat?” 

“Oh, Pm fresh to-d£iy, cap’n! Pll hang to him — day," 
and Patsy was gone. 


A BITE AT THE BAIT 


157 


"Now,’’ said Carnes, turning briskly to a large ward- 
robe, "for the Warham and her grecct discovery. I 
thought the fish would bite!’’ 

Opening the wardrobe he began a rapid but careful 
toilet, deftly transforming himself into the fop of yester- 
day. 

"Confound it!" he sighed half.-aloud, as he turned 
away from his mirror, "I wish Dick had not left the city 
just now. Pm quite likely to need him.’’ 


CHAPTER XVII 


SOWING THE WIND 

When Rufus Carnes, once more in the character of 
an elderly fop, appeared for the second time before Mrs. 
Warham, she saw in him the same unruffled, smiling 
suavity, met the same glance, half-respect, half-admira- 
tion, and heard the same deferential confidence in his 
tone. 

But he saw a new woman. 

The gorgeous toilet of the day before was still gor- 
geous, but the crown of ill-matched hair was disheveled, 
the Silken frills were awry; the sallow countenace glow- 
ered upon him, rendered more somber by the total 
absence of the softening tints of rouge and pearl pow- 
der; the eyes gleamed and glowered and wavered; the 
mouth and nostrils twitched, the hands and feet were 
unconsciously restless. Under the stress of some new 
and strong emotion, Mrs. Warham had forgotten — Mrs. 
Warham. The detective saw all this at a glance, but his 
tone was one of anxiety, not fpr the news she might have 
to impart, but for the woman herself. As he stood 
bowing before her, this was his mental comment: 

"Ah! I have her now!" 

But aloud he said: ‘‘My dear lady, something has 
annoyed or displeased you. I hope there is no bad news? ” 

The woman was striving visibly for self-control; but 
her hands shook as she held out to him a copy of the 
"Morning Owl." ‘‘Read that," she said, indicating the 
paragraph with a quivering forefinger. 

158 


SOmhIG THE IVIND 


•159 


Carnes glanced at the paper and then back to the face 
of the woman. 

"I have seen that,” he said quietly. 

Her eyes flamed. 

“You — you have seen — you? did you put that in the 
paper?” 

“I! Oh no, madam," elevating his eyebrows in sur- 
prise. “I supposed it to your advertisement.” 

“Mine! My advertisement! Why, why^ 1 would put 
my fingers in the fire first!” 

Carnes closed his eyes, the corners of his lips were 
compressed, but he said nothing. Her mood pleased 
him; he waited for her to speak again. 

“How do we know,” she went on after a brief silence, 
“what mischief this will do, at this time? Has this 
been in other papers — has it?” 

“No,” said Carnes softly. “Only in the 'Owl.*" 

“It must not be printed again. It must be stopped." 

“It was in yesterday's paper;” his voice still soft, his 
eyes upon the carpet. 

"\n yesterday* s — and you did not tell me!” 

Suddenly his eyes lifted and rested full upon her face, 
and, gradually, as he spoke, her own eyes ceased their 
roving, the flame died out of them and they shifted from 
his face to the floor. 

“Madam,” he said with slow, soft impressiveuess, 
“this is the result of half-confidences. Naturally, I sup- 
posed you to have been the author of these advertise- 
ments; now, if they had been yours, let me show you 
how worse than useless concealment would have been. 
Yesterday I gave you the opportunity to tell me every- 
thing; you evaded some of my questions; when I left 
you I took measures to find out, at once, if that adver- 
tisement were yours." 

“Well!” she ejaculated breathlessly. 


160 


A SLENDER CLUE 


' I found that it was not; som« one besides ourselves 
is searching for your step-daughter." 

"Who is it?" she almost hissed. "Do you know who 
it is?" 

"It is a man. I did not learn his name." 

Mrs. Warham began to pace the floor hurriedly — she 
seemed to have forgotten his presence. Then suddenly 
she stopped and turned toward him. 

"How did you find this out — about this notice — this 
man?" she asked abruptly. 

"Simply enough. I inquired at the ‘O'^r office." 

"And they told you — " 

"That it was a man who gave them that advertise- 
ment; it came in at the window devoted to the use of 
gentlemen. " 

She resumed her walk, her agitation increasing. The 
detective watched her furtively; his face was expression- 
less. 

• Finally she halted and again faced him. 

"What are you going to do about this?" she asked. 

"Nothing. " 

"Nothing!" she seated herself opposite him and looked 
at him with eager eyes. Nothing! what does that 
mean? " 

"Once before," said Carnes slowly, and fixing his calm 
gaze again upon her face, "I told you that to succeed, 
I must have your help. You are not helping me." 

"I?_" 

“On the contrary you are hindering me 

"I don’t — " 

"You will not see this matter in its proper light. If 
I were your lawyer and you eager to win a case you would 
hold nothing back; you would tell me everything even to 
the extent of criminating yourself ; you would see that 
it was my business to make black appear white, if need 


SOIVING THE IVIND 


161 


be, not yours. With a detective even more than with a 
lawyer.it is necessary to have no concealments. I am 
working iox you ^ in your interest; you must tell me all 
that I need to know or — I must drop this case." 

"I — I don’t understand;" the woman’s eyes had been 
slowly traveling from the furniture to his face, from his 
face to the floor. 

"Pardon me. You are anything but obtuse. I am going 
to ask some questions. Whether I continue this search 
or not will depend upon your answers. And— keep this 
in mind, all that you tell me is under the seal of secrecy. 
If I drop your case I shall forget it and you. That is 
my business. Now — are we ready?" 

Her hands were clinched in her lap, her eyes still 
studied the carpet. She was biting at her under lip. 

"Yes," she said sullenly. "Begin." 

"First then do you want to find Bertha Warham?" 

"Yes." 

"And you do not want this other — this man to find 
her?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

Her lips closed in a hard pale line; her hands clutched 
at each other. 

"Can’t you understand?" she said lifting her eyes to 
his face. "I want to be the one to find her." 

"Ah!" said Carnes softly and fixing her eyes with his 
own, "Why^ Mrs. Warham?" 

The dark blood mounted to her face. Her eyes 
wavered, fell, rose again and met his defiantly. 

"I consider this unnecessary," she said. 

"/ am the judge, madam, it A necessary — absolutely so." 

Again her eyes wandered, the convulsive movements 
repeated themselves. Watching her from beneath his 
half-closed lids, Carnes knew that she longed to rebel. 


162 


A SLENDER CLUE 


At last her resolve seemed to be taken; she sat straight 
before him and her restlessness ceased; she unclasped 
her hands and placed them upon either arm of the easy- 
chair in which she had seated herself. 

“I am going to tell you my story over again,” she said 
slowly, her mouth setting into hard lines. “I think 
you will understand my meaning this tinTe. ” 

He gave her a nod of approval. 

"Ah!” he murmured, "I was sure that you would not 
disappoint me.” 

Evidently Mrs. Warham had made up her mind, but 
if Carnes had hoped for details he was doomed to dis- 
appointment. 

“When I married Mr. Warham, ’’she began,” I was alone 
in the world, free, independent and with a small property, 
enough at least for my own comfort as long as I might live. 
Everything went smoothly. Mr. Warham was an easy 
man in the main, until the girls grew up, and I had little 
trouble with any of them except Bertha. She never liked 
me, and several little things happened during her -school 
days which made her dislike increase. I tried to keep 
her from doing imprudent things, arid from various 
extravagances, and she would not be controlled. To make 
things worse she began to exercise a strange influence 
over her father, and to use it against me. I had a sister 
married and living near us and I was very fond of her 
— her son. He was a fine boy and he and Bertha grew 
up playmates. We all thought them a nice little couple 
and had made up our minds to see them married some 
day, and we had this understanding among us: I was to 
leave the boy all that I had, and Mr. Warham was to 
portion Bertha, giving her as much as I gave to the boy. 
But as they grew older Bertha grew flighty and head- 
strong, not in the least like her sisters; she must be sent 
to the best schools or none; she learned easily and began 


SOIVING THE IVIND 


163 


soon to look down upon us all; she jilted poor Joe and 
snubbed him unmercifully, and all the while he wor- 
shiped her; she wound her father right around her little 
finger; you would have thought she was the head of the 
house. Finally we persuaded her to marry the man I 
told you of and try to settle down; well you may know 
how it ended, and now after I have nursed her father 
through a long sickness, he turns upon me and says that 
/ am to blame for Bertha’s flight. I never saw a man so 
changed; he had made his will leaving- me half his prop- 
erty, and only last week he tore it to tatters before my 
eyes, and said that he would not leave me a farthing 
beyond what the law would give me until I found that girl 
and brought her back." 

"Is that all?" 

"No! ” her face flushing hotly, sudden impetuosity in 
her voice. "Joe — my — my sister’s boy has turned upqn me 
too. He thinks I am to blame — the foolish fellow would 
marry her yet if she would come back and have him,” here 
her eyes gleamed, her resentment seemed rising. "I want 
to find her," she exclaimed. "I want no one else to inter- 
fere. You know what I think — " breaking off suddenly as 
if fearing the effect of her words upon her listener. 

Carnes leaned toward her, one hand with wrist turned 
outward resting jauntily on his knee, the other, palm up- 
lifted, extended toward her. 

"I know what you mean,” he said slowly. "You want 
this girl found; and if she is found under humiliating 
circumstances, surrounded by shame, a sinner among sin- 
ners, it will be the better lot you\ it will enable you to 
say to your husband and your nephew: ’See! did I not 
tell you she has not been injured by me? The wrong 
lay within herself; she has followed the dictates of a de- 
praved nature.’ to find her thus will be to destroy your 
husband’s confidence in her; to restore his confidence in 


164 


A SLENDER CLUE 


you, and to effectually cure this youth, whose interests 
you seem to have at heart, of his infatuation. Is not that 
your meaning, madam?" 

His eyes held hers, his lips smiled, his whole attitude 
invited confidence; he seemed to admire, rather than to 
deprecate the motive imputed to her. 

With her eyes still held by his, she hesitated, opened 
her lips, closed them again, and moved restlessly. 

But Carnes retained his vantage-ground. 

"This being the state of your mind, I know now how 
to proceed,” he said. "Now tell me, madam, when I 
find — this girl, what shall be my next move?” 

She was off her guard. He spoke of finding Bertha 
Warham as of a thing assured, and for the first time she 
spoke impulsively, without hesitation. 

"When you find her," she said eagerly, "come straight 
to me. She must not know you; when you find her, 
watch her night and day. I want to show them both — 
the truth.” 

"I see. You want no alarm given; you want her fa- 
ther and her lover to see with their own eye^; to know 
the truth ss you know it?” 

"Yes,” she said quickly. "Yes, yes.” 

He arose and took up his hat. 

"Have you any idea about this advertisement,” he 
asked. "Can you guess whom the advertiser may be?” 

She arose and came forward, standing straight and tall 
before him, her face on a level with his. 

"I think it is her father,” she said. 

"Is he well enough to come to the city?” 

"Oh, not in person. But he talked, before I offered 
to come in person, of sending to a friend, a banker, in 
fact to get his advice and assistance.” 

"Why to a banker?” 

"Because he knows him well and believes him to be 
shrewd and capable.” 


SOIVING THE IVIND 


165 


*'Do you know this person?” 

“No.” 

"Did you ever see him, or he you?" 

"No, to both questions.” 

"Do you know the name of the man or the firm?" 

She hesitated, seerned to consider, and finally said: 

"It is Rouke, I think — Rouke & Colton.” 

"Oh! ejaculated Carnes. "Rouke & Colton, is it?" 
Then suddenly, "Mrs. Warham, where is that young man, 
your nephew? I forget his name.” 

She flushed and her fingers worked nervously. 

"He is — I don’t know where he is,” she said hesitat- 
ingly. "He left home shortly after his trouble with Ber- 
tha. It hurt him terribly — he has only been back once 
since.” 

"Back to his home?” 

"Back to his home — yes.” 

"When?” 

“About a week after Bertha disappeared.” 

"Oh! And you can’ t describe this young man forme?" 

Her eyes fell under his direct gaze. 

"I can’t” — she began, then her tone changing, "wait,” 
she said, "I have his picture.” 

With a gesture toward the chair he had lately occupied, 
she passed him and went out, while the detective crossed 
the room, stood at the broad window, and looked down, 
murmuring softly, while he accompanied each syllable 
with a tattoo of finger taps upon the window frame: 

"How she hates — this girl. She don^ t understand the 
advertising business. She’s worried about, or anxious 
for, or afraid of this Mr. — Joseph — Larsen!” Then after 
a moment, during which the tattoo increased in sound 
and velocity, he said softly: "There’s a full grown, very 
much alive Ethiopian in the fence, yet — my dear Mrs. 
W— 


ICC 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Having thus delivered himself, Carnes turned from 
the window, and when Mrs. Warham entered she found 
him sitting in the chair she had indicated, looking 
blankly at the opposite wall. 

She came swiftly toward him, and held before him a 
velvet-framed cabinet photograph. 

He took the picture from her hand and bent his head 
to conceal the quick look of recognition that crossed his 
face. 

There before him was the square head, the overhang- 
ing brow, the dark, strong face and curved nose of the 
young man of the theater, the patron of hackmen and 
theatrical hotels. While he studied the pictured face, 
something that he saw there caused him to start and 
look suddenly up at Mrs. Warham. After another look 
at the picture he said slowly — deliberately: 

"Madam, he looks like you." 

Then swiftly his eyes were lifted from the picture and 
rested upon her face. It was ashen, even the lips were 
gray; but while her hands were clinching each other, 
his gaze returned to the picture, and he said as if to 
himself: 

"Hum! striking family resemblance; your nephew has 
your expression rather than your features, madam." 

He placed the picture on the table and seemed to for- 
get it. He had formed a new plan. 

"How long shall you remain in the city, Mrs. War- 
ham? " 

Her voice quivered slightly; she was not quite com- 
posed. 

"As long as it seems needful," she said. 

"Then to-morrow I will wait upon you. Let me see 
— at this hour; and Mrs. Warham, please wait for me 
here — we must not make these interviews too conspicuous. 
At two o’clock, then." 


SOIVING THE fVlND 


167 


She bowed assent, and, in another moment, the detect- 
ive was hastening from the hotel, muttering as he went: 

“Mrs. Warham,. my dear madam, P ]1 treat you to a 
surprise to morrow. ” 

Upon reaching his room once more, he wrote the fol- 
lowing note, in a hand as characterless as a school-boy^s 
copy. 

“B. 3. 'OwP Office, City. 

"The person who advertised for Bertha Warham may 
meet one who can give him information, by calling at 
the Avenue House, G — Street, second-floor parlor, at two 
o^ clock p. M. to-day — Friday, May 13th.’’ 

"Anon — ” 

“There," he said as he inclosed this note and pushed 
it aside, "that goes to-morrow; let us see what the har- 
vest will be." 

Ah, Rufus Carnes, keen-witted, astute detective as 
you are, even you cannot forsee the harvest of death and 
disaster that will spring from the events of the past two 
days. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


O^CALAHAN, THE COMEDIAN 

At five o'clock of that same day, a flashily-dressed man 
came swaggering down the street in which stood the Gal- 
loway House; he carried in his right hand a jaunty rat- 
tan cane, in his left a showy traveling bag; a striped 
ulster hung across the arm that carried the cane. He 
wore a suit of “loud" check and rakish cut, somewhat 
soiled and a little the worse for wear; the coat, held 
together across his ample chest by a single button, left 
a large front of waistcoat, and a glittering watch-chain 
visible; a derby hat worn very much over one ear, gave 
emphasis to a profusion of auburn curls oiled, scented 
and so long as to rest upon the collar of his coat, to 
which they had imparted a smoothness and shine that 
they did not altogether conceal. His face was smooth- 
shaven, rubicund, smiling, and self-satisfied. His nose 
had a convivial tint, and a long scar across the left 
cheek gave an odd expression to the whole countenance; 
his eyes, fine orbs in form and color, were encircled by 
dark shadows, and looked out from his face with a broad 
stare and an amount of self-confidence that should have 
been an inspiration to the beholder. His dress, his 
look, his manner were unmistakable, and as he passed 
a group of news-boys, sunning themselves and indulging 
in a momentary bit of “chaff,” by way of enlivening 
their occupation, one of them flung after him this 
friendly salute: 

“Hello, Dizzy. How’s walkin’?" 

168 


O^C^LAH^N, THE COMEDIAN 


169 


With no sign that he heard unless it might have been 
an additional flourish of his rattan cane — the new-comer 
strode on toward the Galloway House. 

A few paces away from the open entrance, a ragged 
boy was sitting upon the curbstone holding upon his 
knees a hoot-black’s box, and looking languidly up and 
down the street. As his eye fell upon the traveler he 
became animated to the extent of twisting himself 
around with one knee under him and his face toward the 
inner walk. 

"Want cher boots black, misser?” 

The pedestrian stopped suddenly and looked down at 
his feet, then he thrust a thumb and forefinger into his 
pocket, clasping the cane with his elbow in order to 
release a hand; finally he said, slowly and with much 
dignity: 

"Come this way, young fellow," indicating a stairway 
near the^hotel entrance. 

"Can’t yer stop here?” said the boy without moving. 

For answer the jaunty stranger withdrew his fingers 
from his pocket, released the cane, gave it a significant 
twirl, and moved toward the stairway, seeing which the 
boy scrambled to his feet and followed with alacrity. 

For a few moments the polishing process went on in si- 
lence, the man looking carelessly out upon the street, the 
boy seeming intent upon his work. Then, as the rumble 
and din about them swelled into a medley of sound, 
the man asked, with his eyes still looking streetward: 

"How now, Patsy?” 

The boy started, looked quickly up, then hurriedly 
down again. 

"Captain," he said, letting his brush rest for a mo- 
ment, "it’s as much as ever that I knew you. ” Then as 
his patron remained silent,he looked up again as if to reas-' 
sure himself, and resuming his work he added; "It’s all 
right, he’s in there now.” 


170 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Good! Been here all the time, Pat?" 

"No, sir! That feller won’t never keep still — he’s 
got a new deal." 

"Give it to us." 

"He’s doin' the stalls an’ street beggars." 

Carnes turned his head and looked up the stairs; then 
moving a few steps backward he seated himself at the 
foot of the stairway and said: 

"Move up here, boy, and spin your yarn while you do 
the other foot. Be lively now.” 

The boy was instantly in his new position, and Carnes, 
for his jaunty patron was none other, sitting on the step 
above him, with an elbow resting upon a checkered 
knee, listened to his story, while seeming to hear noth- 
ing, and to see only the street. 

"He sailed out a little after noon," began Patsy, "and 
he went up an’ down the business streets with meat his 
heels. Finally he come to the old woman what keeps 
the apple stand at the corner, near*the new theayter — ye 
know? " 

"Yes." 

"Well, he confabbed a while with her, an’ then I’m 
blest if he didn’t out with a fot3^graff an’ pass it over to 
her, but he didn’t let her keep it, like he did the hack- 
men. After she’d give it a good long lookin’ over, he 
took it back agin, an’ we went on. We went next to 
A — Avenue. Over by 9th there’s always a no-legged 
beggar—" 

"Near the theater?" queried Carnes. 

"Yes— right close by. Well, he had the same kind of 
a confab there, an’ then he went to two other stands — 
these were, one of ’em on Pearl and Winter — an old 
darkey you know — " 

Carnes nodded. 

"An’ the other is that little Italyan by Cottage Court, 


O^CALAHAN, THE COM EDI AH 


171 


'Twas the same deal all round, talkin’ a while, then 
showin’ the fotygraff, then off agin.” 

Carnes pursed up his lips as if to give vent to a pro- 
longed whistle, then they relaxed and he chuckled softly 
instead. The sound caused Patsy to pause in his work, 
with brush suspended. 

“Pat,” said Carnes slowly, and not seeming to notice 
the boy’s movement, "think now; were not these two 
last stands, the darky — was it a man or woman, eh?” 

“Woman;” said Patsy, beginning to polish with vigor. 
"Pearl an’ Winter.” 

"Yes; yes. Well, was not this woman and the Italian 
both near some theater?” 

"By — jingo!” ejaculated the boy pausing as before. 
"They was for a fact! Both of ’em. Yes, all of ’em.” 

"Umph! I thought so,” said Carnes. 

A few moments later our man of striking appearance 
entered the office of the Galloway House, threw down a 
heavy sachel, flung his striped ulster across a chair, tilt- 
ed his derby hat far back upon his head, thrust his rat- 
tan cane under his left arm so that the ferrule end project- 
ed behind his left ear, and dropped into an attitude neg- 
ligent but jaunty with his back against a cigar coun^- 
ter. 

A coatless clerk who was reading a pamphlet behind 
his desk moved ostentatiously, laid down the pamphlet 
and coughed twice. 

The stranger crossed one knee over the other, turned 
his back more squarely upon the clerk, and directed his 
gaze toward some lithographs of stage celebrites, all 
more or less yellowed and time-stained that were tacked 
high up on the opposite wall. 

The office was deserted save by the clerk and a small 
boy who was catching flies near the single window, and the 
stranger allowed his gaze to wander from one pictured 


172 


A SLENDER CLUE 


face to another, seeming oblivious of the presence of 
even these two. 

He had surveyed the array upon the opposite wall, 
and turned his gaze back to the point where it had at first 
rested when the clerk made his second demonstration 
by sliding down from his stool, moving it with a scrape 
and a clatter, remounting it and fluttering the leaves of 
a shabby register. 

The stranger drew his cane from beneath his arm and 
setting its polished head against his teeth began to 
whistle softly. Whereupon a frown settled upon the feat- 
ures of the coatless clerk; he closed the register with a 
bang, and called sharply to the boy at the window. 

"Jim, no more o’ that! " 

The boy with hands uplifted brought them together 
so swifly and dextrously that they inclosed a huge blue- 
bottle, and, still holding his prisoner, turned toward 
the clerk. 

"Huh?" 

"I say stop it; we didn’t hire ye for a fly-trap." 

The boy opened his palm and set the buzzing blue- 
bottle free. 

"All right," said he cheerfully, and began at once to 
look for a new occupation. The sachel of the indifferent 
arrival fell under his gaze and he approached it slowly, 
eyed it critically for a moment, then touched it lightly 
with his foot. This done he looked up to encounter the 
gaze of its owner. 

"How does it strike you, fly-trap?" 

The boy’s mouth widened into a grin. He gave the 
bit of luggage another investigating prod, and then moved 
nearer the stranger, and said interrogatively: 

"Gold bricks?" 

The owner of the luggage turned toward the clerk, 
laughing lightly. 


' aCALAHAhl, THE COMEDIAN 


173 


“House pretty full?” he inquired. 

“Middling," replied the clerk with dignity. 

“Business light now everywhere,” went on the stranger 
imperturbably. “Got many permanents among the 
‘profesh?’” 

“So so," replied the clerk with no sign of unbending. 

“Give us a peep at the muster-roll.” 

The clerk threw back the cover of the register, brushed 
a layer of dust from that portion of the desk nearest 
the stranger, and propelled the book toward him. 

Settling his two elbows comfortably upon the desk, 
crossing one leg over the other and arching his back to 
the curve of a half-moon, the stranger bent his head 
and studied the pages of the register deliberately and 
long. Finally, with a shrug as if the result of his in- 
vestigation were not altogether satisfactory, he reached 
across the desk for a spluttering pen and wrote beneath 
the latest entry — 

^‘Barney O' Calahan, San Francisco." 

This done he pushed aside the register and favored the 
clerk with a patronizing nod, saying: 

“The best room you’ve got. Cap, and send fly-trap with 
the grip." 

When the habitues of the Galloway gathered in the 
office for their after-supper cigars, they learned that 
“O’Calahan, the Frisco comique, " was a guest of the 
house, and the intelligence created a stir among them; 
even the transients were aroused to a considerable display 
of interest, all but one, and he, sitting apart from the 
others, seemed not to heed their exclamations, specula- 
tions, questions, criticisms. 

Evidently this person was not of the “profesh: ” there 
was something almost rustic in his dress and manners. 
It was a sturdy rusticity however, and not to be trifled 
with; of this the worldly-wise lounger, tragedian, come- 


174 


A SLENDER CLUE 


dian, minstrel, what-not, assured each other with knowing 
nods and winks, and cautious side-glances. When Mr. 
“Barney O’Calahan," in fresh linen, more self-possessed 
more sailing, more convivial than the most dashing 
“dizzy" of them all, appeared among them just before 
the spring-belated evening began to darken, he was wel- 
comed warmly, his smiles returned, his lively sallies 
laughed at, his cigars smoked, himself openly admired 
by all save the dark-browed, square- jawed man who sat 
sturdily in their midst unabashed by their brilliant wit, 
unawed by their “stage idiom,” uninterested, stolid, si- 
lent. 

He seemed not to note the contrast between himself 
and them, not to realize or recognize a difference, and 
when he gruffly declined a cigar which was proffered him 
by the brilliant Mr. O^Calahan, he followed up, and 
gave emphasis to his refusal, by drawing from his trou- 
sers’ pocket a long bar of black tobacco and deliberately 
. biting off a large mouthful. 

He had no smiles for their jest, he conversed in mon- 
osylablles, and when the gas was lighted and the gentle- 
men of the profession began to disperse, in search of an 
evening’s entertainment,some to the theaters, some to beer 
and billiards and others to still more questionable pleas- 
ures, this taciturn countryman, repulsing all overtures 
and patronizing offers of companionship, took his way 
alone to a theater of the “cheap but popular” order, 
which if one might judge from the uncertain and cautious 
manner in which he picked his way thither, he had 
never before visited; and while the gayety was at its hight 
Barney O’Calahan, serene, smiling and alone, might 
have been seen, not far away yet not too near, occupying 
a balcony chair and literally keeping one eye upon the 
stage and one upon Mr. Joseph Larsen. 


CHAPTER XIX 


DISMISSED 

When Rufus Carnes, alias Barney O’Calahan, laid his 
tired head upon the diminutive and not too downy pil- 
low of the Galloway House, he was in a very contented 
frame of mind. He was in perfect physical health, had 
no personal cares or responsibilities to fret him; and he 
was in the very midst of what he termed “a splendid 
muddle,” a mixture of plot and counterplot, a mystery 
of which, he felt assured, he as yet scarce knew the be- 
ginning. 

Concerning the disappearance of Bertha Warham he 
could hardly be said to have a theory but he had a plan, 
and a very clearly defined one, by which he hoped to 
open a way to reach the truth; and as he was, when left 
to himself, never conservative, but always original and 
often startling in his methods, he had decided to begin 
on the morrow with 2. coup sufficiently hazardous, and al- 
together worthy of himself. 

That Mrs. Warham dealt in ‘half-truths, if not, at 
some points, whole fabrications, he fully believed. He 
was convinced also that she had no love for Bertha 
Warham; and that she was eager to find the girl seemed 
for this reason almost beyond belief — and yet Carnes 
did believe it; in fact he had sifted from his interviews 
with Mrs. Warham all that seemed to him doubtful, 
worthless, and untrue, and he found as his remainder three 
ideas, barren and unpromising as helps toward further 
light, viz: 


175 


17G 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Bertha Warham was missing. 

Bertha Warham’ s step-mother was Bertha Warham’ s 
enem3^ 

Bertha Warham’s step-mother wanted Bertha Warham 
found. 

He was not ‘so sure of Mr. Joseph Larsen, for that the 
dark-visaged countryman who had advertised in the Owl 
and scattered photographs among the hackmen and 
street-venders was Joseph Larsen he felt assured, not 
so much because of the photograph exhibited by Mrs. 
Warham as by a blunde^ made by this same Joseph, a 
blunder often made by persons who attempt for the first 
time to conceal their identity. 

In registering at the various hotels which he had 
briefly honored by his presence, he had disguised rather 
than dropped his name, and retaining the initial letters, 
appeared upon the page John Larkins, instead of Joseph 
Larsen. 

"The fool!” Carnes had muttered upon making this dis- 
covery. "They always do it — once — and they always grow 
wiser before they try again.” 

To bring about a crisis, and to give himself an oppor- 
tunity, between the two, to catch some Iragment which 
might lead up to the truth or at least give him a hint 
upon which to act, Carnes had decided to bring Mrs. 
Warham and Joseph Larsen face to face; and to be him- 
self present at the meeting. 

Just how it would end, he did not attempt to guess. 
That these two persons, so closely related, and whose 
interests should be the same, were here upon the same 
errand, and each ignorant of the other’s proximity, seemed 
to the detective not the least among the peculiarities 
attendant upon this altogether peculiar case. If Joseph 
Larsen had been trifled with, and discarded by this miss- 
ing girl, was it probable that his search was a friendly one? 


DISMISSED 


177 


To guess was folly. To waste time in idle specula- 
tion was not in the nature of Rufus Carnes; so leaving 
till tp-morrow what to-morrow would bring he slept 
dreamlessly. 

The letter which was to lure Mr. Joseph Larsen into 
the presence of Mrs. Warham was safe in the postal de- 
partment of the morning and when Mr. O’Calahan 

appeared among the habitues of the Galloway House after 
a late breakfast, he found that he had an entire morning 
to devote to the Galloway loungers and the morning 
papers. Joseph Larsen was not visible, but wherever 
he was, Patsy was sure to be at his heels, and so, as 
noon approached, Carnes, growing weary of the tame de- 
lights of the dingy “Head-quarters of the profesh sir," 
decided to make a visit to the chief of police. 

In a great city it is an easy thing to possess several 
identities, provided one is equal to the dramatic effort — 
a pass key, a room in a block, a sufficient wardrobe, and 
the thing is done. The key, the room, the wardrobe 
Carnes had always at command, and so just fifty-six min- 
utes after Barney O’Calahan turned his back upon the 
Gallowajq Rufus Carnes opened the door of Captain 
B — ’s office and entered. 

The captain was absent, but a letter lay upon his 
desk addressed to Rufus Carnes, and this was promptly 
presented by the captain’s deputy. 

Carnes took it, glanced at the superscription, started 
slightly, and tore off the wrapper with an impatient 
hand; as he began its perusal he muttered something 
unintelligible, a blank look slowly overspreading his face; 
when his eye had traveled to the bottom of the page he 
turned, seated himself in the vacant chair and read it 
again slowly. Then he folded the letter, placed it upon 
his knee and turned toward the captain’s deputy, who, 


178 


A SLENDER CLUE 


lacking the captain’s sang froid, was watching his move- 
ments, curiosity in his face. 

"Got a match handy." 

The deputy started, and then took up a bronze match- 
receiver and leaned forward to proffer it, the look of 
curiosity deepening in his face. 

But Carnes, never glancing up, took a match, struck it 
upon the heel of his boot, lighted a black cigar and then, 
as if by an afterthought turned in his chair and silently 
proffered his case to the deputy. 

There was a long silence in the captain’s office, Carnes 
smoking and watching the white wreaths from his cigar 
curl upward and disappear, and seeming intent upon 
nothing else, the deputy smoking and watching him 
wonderingly. 

When his cigar was half consumed, Carnes took it from 
between his lips, fliped the ashes from the burning end 
and tossed it out of the window; then he took up the 
letter and reperused it, his face sphinx-like. 

The letter was signed Lucretia Warham^ and it con- 
tained these remarkable sentences: 

"My Dear Mr. Carnes: 

"I have just had news which makes the search for B. 
W. no longer necessary. You need make no further 
effort. I know where to look for her, and before this 
reaches you I shall be out of the city. Please send your 
bill for all expenses to the address which you will find 
below, and accept my thanks for your courtesies. 

L. Warham.” 

And then followed this peculi.ar postscript: 

"It will be positively useless to agitate this matter fur- 
ther. Too much has been done already; matters now are 
comfortably settled. " 

Small wonder that Carnes read this singular document 


DISMISSED 


179 


twice and again; small wonder if his face was a blank; 
so, for many moments, was his mind. Then slowly, while 
he folded the letter after its third perusal, his wits be- 
gan to gather, and what he saw first, was the absurdity 
of the thing; and while the captain’s deputy still 
gravely gazed, he stored the letter in a capacious pocket- 
book, and then stretching his arms above his head, 
indulged in a roar of laughter. 

This done he arose and as his eyes met those of the 
astonished deputy, he said : 

“Felix, old fellow, I wish 1 could share my joke with 
you, but I can’t. When did this precious epistle land? ” 

“Not half an hour ago,” said the deputy, glad of a 
chance to open his mouth; “just after the captain went 
out.” 

“Umph! yes. Where has he gone?" 

"The captain?” • 

“Yes.” 

“Don’t know. Said he would be back at twelve pre- 
cisely.” 

“Umph!” grunted Carnes again. “Well, tell him I’ll 
see him to-night, say at six o’clock.” 

Felix nodded, and Carnes went from the office com- 
muning with himself as he walked slowly onward. 

“Singular affair this,” he thought. “Singular begin- 
ning, singular end. End indeed! There’ 5 somewhat 
wrong in Denmark. It’s easy to cry stop, Mrs. Warham. 
I was willing to stop before I began, but I’ve grown in- 
terested. I’ve a great mind not to stop. I wonU stop. 
I’ll call on you as per programme, Mrs. Warham, and then 
I’ll press the acquaintance of Mr. Joseph Larsen. 
Wonder if he will withdraw from the track too? Won- 
der — hallo! — what’s up!” 

A fire bell near at hand was sounding its alarm. A 
crowd was gathering about the nearest corner;* fire en- 


180 


A SLENDER CLUE 


gines and red shirts came flying down the street. Down 
the street, around the corner rattle, yell, ding-dong. 

"Look out — take care!” warning yells, screams of ter- 
ror, childish screams, and high above the rest, the wail 
of a woman. 

A lithe form, shooting straight from the sidewalk to 
the middle of the crossing at one bound, it seemed. 
Then it is over; the engine tears on, rattle and ring; a 
mother’s terror is drowned in tears of joy and thankful- 
ness; a child is rescued at the last moment — snatched 
from under the feet of the flying horses. It lies unhurt 
but terrified upon the street, and beside it, one hand 
still clutching its garments, bleeding and senseless, lies 
Rufus Carnes. 



BESIDE IT, BLEEDING AND SENSELESS, LIES RUEUS CARNES. 
- Slender Clue, p. 180. 








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CHAPTER XX 


PATSY OUTGENERALED 

They took him up gently and carried him from the 
street to the pavement. Then a voice in the crowd gave 
their willing feet and burdened hands a new impetus. 

"The nearest drug-store.” 

Of course, they had all thought of that — and then as 
they lifted him again, the mischief being done, two 
policemen came, panting, from opposite directions, and 
one of them, pressing to the side of the unconscious 
man, looked down into his bruised and livid face. 

"Why!" he exclaimed sharply, "iPs Carnes — Riffe 
Carnes!" and then, following up his tardy arrival with 
prompt action, he called a carriage, sent for a surgeon, 
and leaving his brother officer to disperse the gaping 
crowd, took the injured man straight to his own hote 

And so it happened that, when later in the day, Patsy 
presented himself at the door of Carnes’ room, with a 
countenance anxious and troubled, he found the window 
darkened, a nurse and a physician in possession, two young 
detectives of the agency from which Carnes , had latel}^ 
withdrawn himself, sitting near the bed, and upon it 
Rufus Carnes, his head encased in bandages, very pale, 
sleeping, and breathing heavily. 

The hurts were serious, the surgeon said, but not nec- 
essarily, fatal; if they could ward off all fever symptoms 
and keep down inflammation, all would be well. The 
bruises upon the body were only temporary discomforts. 
The injuries done the head were the ones to look to, 

181 


182 


A SLENDER CLUE 


There must be perfect quiet, no talking, nothing to ex- 
cite or annoy. With these precautions observed, and 
with careful nursing, the wounds would heal rapidly. 

Upon hearing these things Patsy’s look of anxiety 
deepened; he felt upon his shoulders a weight of respon- 
sibility, and after some anxious deliberation, he set off 
for police head-quarters, determined to unburden himself 
to the chief. 

But again he met with disappointment; the chief had 
returned to his office, shortly after Carnes left it, for one 
brief moment, to inform his deputy of his immediate 
departure on a sudden and secret mission, to snatch a 
bundle of papers from a private drawer, issue some 
orders and cast a hurried good-bye over his shoulder as 
he went his way. 

"Luck’s agin us,” muttered Patsy ruefully as he turned 
his face homeward. "I wish I knowed” — here he stop- 
ped suddenly and a maxim often upon the lips of Carnes, 
crossed his mind. 

"When you don’t know wh^t to do, do nothing." • 

The boy uttered these words half aloud, and then 
struck his clinched fist upon his hip. 

"I don’t know what to do,” he muttered, "so Pll jest 
— ” here he paused again, struck by a new idea. 

"Yes 1 do know though!”- his countenance brightening. 
"Pll try an’ keep track o’ his business whilst he’s dry 
docked. Pll look sharper’n ever after my man with the 
fotygraffs. 1 kin do that anyhow,” and Patsy hurried on, 
taking fresh courage and feeling cheered already at the 
thought that he might still serve his prostrate idol, and 
perhaps win from his lips that praise which was sweeter 
to his ears than any other sound on earth, coming from 
the master who was, in his eyes, a paragon of shrewdness, 
wisdom and executive ability. 

The next morning, "The Owl,” conspicuous hitherto 


PATSY OUTQPNERALED 


183 


only for its repeated queries after missing Bertha War- 
ham, held other matter of interest to our story. The first 
item was under this attractive heading: 

“a gallant deed. 

“On yesterday, the corner of A — and Z — Streets was 
the scene of more than one sensation. While the fire- 
alarm was resounding in the block below, and the streets 
thronged with the usual crowd of fire worshipers, a 
woman holding by the hand a small and delicate child 
rashly endeavored* to cross Z — Street in advance of the 
fire engines. At the moment when the horses were up- 
on them, and the fate of the child seemed certain, a 
man sprang out from the crowd and with one hand 
wrested the child from underneath the horses’ feet, 
while with the other he clutched for a moment the 
bridle of the maddened animal nearest him. In another 
'moment he was borne down and trampled under the 
horses’ feet, the child unhurt, and held clear of the 
horses by a grasp of iron. The gallant fellow was taken 
up and borne to the nearest place of refuge, and being 
recognized, proved to be none other than Rufus Carnes, 
a well-known and very succes.sful detective, who has now 
added to his long %t of daring deeds, this last disinter- 
ested piece of gallantry, which leaves him seriously if 
not fatally hurt, and deprives the public of his active 
services, so it is to be feared, for a considerable time." 

As it was nearing noon, the clerk behind the desk in 
the office of the little home hotel where Carnes lay in a 
drugged quiet, looked up as a shadow fell across the big 
register to see a stranger, his face half-hidden under a 
slouch hat, and his form buttoned into a high-necked 
linen duster, standing before the desk and very close to 
himself. 

The eyes of the stranger were fixed upon him, and he 


184 


A SLENDER CLUE 


returned the gaze with a look of inquiry and a slight 
gesture. 

“Is — a, the gentleman— the gentleman who was hurt 
yesterday, stopping here?” 

Now the clerk had been answering this and similar 
questions at intervals during the entire morning, and 
from constant repetition his replies, to his own ears, 
sounded very monotonous. So he simply nodded and 
looked slightly bored. 

“Is — is he much hurt?" 

“Pretty badly hurt," said the clerk, looking over the 
stranger’s shoulder to where the boy, Patsy, who had just 
entered, had taken a position with his back toward the 
stranger and his eyes seemingly riveted upon a placard 
on the wall. 

“Does he see anyone — visitors?" persisted the stranger. 

“No sir. Against the doctor’s orders. Can’t talk — 
can’t be talked to." 

“Do— do you think that he might in an important 
matter, be able to answer a few questions?" 

“No sir," said the clerk positively. “He has not 
spoken a word since he was hurt, and he won’t. There’ll 
be no business affairs brought near him now. He’s too 
low down for that. " 

“Pm sorry for that," said the stranger; “1—1 really 
hoped it wasn’t so serious," and he nodded to the clerk 
and turned from the desk. 

When he was outside the office, the boy Patsy 
wheeled sharply and shot an angry glance at the clerk. 

“You’re a dandy, you are!” he said in a savage half- 
whisper. “You think your smart! an’ you’ve gone and 
told that fellow the very thing he was achin’ ter hear." 

And Patsy darted out of the office and across the 
street, where he resumed his self-imposed task of dog- 
ging the slouch hat and buttoned-up duster that half- 


PATSY OUTGENERALED 


185 


concealed the personality of Joseph Larsen whom Patsy 
had chosen to dub “The man with tlie photographs.” 

All day the boy kept his post. It was the usual rou- 
tine among the hackmen and the street-venders, but 
when these had been left behind his work grew tedious. 

“The man with the photographs,” dined at the Gallo- 
way House and sat for an hour in the office, chewing a 
lump of tobacco, and staring moodily down at the dirty 
floor; .then he went out upon the street, looked up and 
down and finally took the way to the nearest book-store 
where he bought a map of the city, and then returned to 
his hotel. 

Without stopping, or looking back, the man with the 
photographs went straight to his room, and Patsy loung- 
ing outside began to yawn and grow sleepy. For two 
long hours he lingered about the place, now up the street, 
now down,, now on one side, now on the other, raising 
here and there the cry of the boot-black, always avoid- 
ing and always seeming to seek patronage. Finally he 
coiled himself up in the stairway, where two days be- 
fore he had polished the boots of Mr. Barney O’Cala- 
han, who by the by, was mysteriously missing from the 
Galloway, and here he fell fast asleep. 

He slept for nearly half an hour and then awoke with 
a- start, to find himself roughly jostled by a man who 
was hurrying up the stairs. 

Half-awake, Patsy bounded out from the stairway and 
hurried to the office window. To his great joy the man 
with the photographs sat in the office reading a news- 
paper and looking more composed and at dase than Patsy 
remembered to have seen him. Thus much the office 
window showed; what it did not show, was a dark valise 
on the floor at the feet of the man with the photographs, 
with a summer overcoat lying across it. 

“He's there.” murmured the boy with a sigh of relief. 


186 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"An^ ril hang to him. Wonder if he^s goin to settle 
at this ^ere place?” 

The afternoon passed, Patsy saw his man enter the 
supper room, come out again and resume his seat near 
the window. He sat now with his face toward the street, 
his hands in his pockets, his hat drawn low over his 
face. It was growing dusk; the hurry and pressure of 
travel increased. Patsy found himself jostled from his 
latest post of observation, and giving the strap of his 
"apparatus” an ostentatious hitch over his shoulder, he 
walked a few paces down the street crying his trade — 

"Blackyer-boots; bla-a-a-ak. ” 

Two doors from the Galloway entrance, Patsy turned 
sharply, uttered an exclamation and then began to run. 

A carriage had paused before the door of the hotel, 
and the man with the photographs, valise in hand, was 
disappearing within it. 

The carriage moved rapidly and straight into the 
busiest thoroughfares. It was growing dark, and moving 
vehicles and people began to lose their individuality. 
Soon there came a dead lock at a corner where trade and 
travel seemed to center, street-cars laden with homeward- 
bound working people, hacks, omnibuses, drays, private 
carriages, and a procession of beplumed and uniformed 
sons of Erin, returning from some out-of-town festival with 
blaze of band and martial tread, a little out of time, 
perhaps, owing to the day^s fatigues, but fascinating 
still to Patsy, who watched their progress admiringly, 
standing ^till among the drays and street-cars. 

When the lock was broken and street-cars and vehicles 
began to move, Patsy could no longer see the object of 
his pursuit. He ran hither and thither, throwing away 
his blacking-box in the recklessness of his search, until 
suddenly he saw the carriage turning out from the crov/d 
and moving slowly close to the pavement. 


PATSY OUTGENERALED 


187 


With an exclamation of delight, the boy pushed and 
elbowed and dodged his way toward it, reached it at 
last, ran behind it to the end of the block, and then 
stopped suddenly. 

The carriage had halted directly under the glare of a 
street lamp. 

Patsy sprang upon the pavement, thrust his hands in 
his pockets, pulled his cap down over his eyes, walked 
boldly past the carriage and looked in. 

It was empty. The man with the photographs had 
disappeared. 

The boy started, stared, looked again, and then sprang 
back into the shadow. 

"Confound him," he muttered, tears of rage and mor- 
tification rising to his eyes. That^s twice he’s done me 
in two days. An’ me wide awake 1 Confound him!" 


CHAPTER XXT 


MURDER MOST FOUL 

The following morning dawned gray and gloomy; 
nearly all night the rain had fallen, and now at seven 
o’clock it was falling still, slowly, steadily, as if it 
never meant to cease. 

Down a certain ‘ street, near the heart of the city, a 
street given over, for the most part, to great warehouses, 
where foot travelers were few, and the rumble of drays 
and lumbering carts was oftenest heard, a man was walk- 
ing slowly, a lean, pale-visaged, hungry-looking fellow, 
who had slept somewhere near among the sheltering 
bales and boxes — evidently a tramp, yet not quite the 
typical tramp of the city. His garments were sufficiently 
ragged, yet they were evidently made for him. His 
face, unshaven for many days, was sufficiently forlorn, 
yet it was neither coarse nor crime-hardened. 

He was shivering with the chill of the morning and 
evidently hardly recovered from the effects of his last 
night’s debauch. His face, a young face, naturally pale 
and bearing yet some lingering traces of refinement, was 
haggard now; his lips and the thin hands, which evi- 
dently were strangers to labor, were blue with cold. 

Seeing him thus shivering in the cliill of the morning, 
one might have pronounced him a pitiful figure; 
dejected, forlorn, despairing — but a desperate character 
he could not have been called. 

Another waif of the streets who, evidently, had fallen 
from safety and comfort to the gutter — a wreck. Last 

18 & 



THE BOJjY of a woman, DEAD AND COLD.— Slender Clue, p. 189, 




MURDER MOST FOUL 


189 


night he had spent his last dimes for drink, had slept 
in a cellar, and was now seeking a more populous 
and lively portion of the city as affording him a more 
hopeful prospect of a breakfast, or perhaps a dram at 
the expense of some more prosperous member of his own 
guild. 

Something, lying a few feet from him in an alley 
which he was passing, attracted his attention ; it looked, 
at first glance, like a leathern purse, and the tramp has- 
tened toward it. 

It was only a woman’s glove that he found, lying half- 
folded as it had fallen, but as he stooped to take it up, 
something else farther down the alley caught his eye; 
something which made him start and look about him. 

Another glance in the direction of the object of his 
surprise, and then he ran hastily to the mouth of the 
alley and looked up and down the street. This done he 
turned, and, noticing that he still held the glove, be 
unclosed his hand and it fell almost in its former place 
as he hurried down the alley. 

It lay in a pitiful huddle close against the damp stone 
wall, its' face turned inward, its hands clutching each 
other — the body of a woman, dead and cold. 

The man started and shuddered, his first instinct that 
of flight; then he bent over the still form and a gleam 
of greed and hunger brightened his eyes. They had 
caught the glitter of gold, gold in her ears, upon her 
fingers, upon her breast. 

His fingers worked rapidly now, even while he paled 
and shuddered, and in a moment he stood erect, in his 
hands a watch and pendant chain and one long ear-ring. 
Not its mate, that lay underneath, and he dared not turn 
nor lift the ghastly thing. Not the rings, they fitted 
close. He tried once, but the hand which he lifted 
seemed to menace him. Then another thought came— 


190 


A SLENDER CLUE 


the pocket. Again he bent down and stirred the silkeik 
drapery. 

Something dark and soft slipped from its folds to his 
feet; a glove, the mate to the first, and then he saw that 
the pocket had been already rifled. It was empty, 
turned inside out, and the glove had doubtless been a 
part of its contents. 

Then, besotted though he was, he knew, and shuddered 
again at the thought,that the other glove, the one he had 
held in his hand, had been dropped, or thrown away at 
the mouth of the alley, by the assassin. 

Suddenly the place became horrible to him ; he thought 
that the ringed hand stirred, and, thrusting his treasure 
into the breast of his ragged coat he bent his head and 
fled down the alley, fear lending him strength and speed. 

That evening^ s "Owl” contained this wordy chronicle: 
"murder in our midst. 

"Yesterday morning as Hans Reisen, a German team- 
ster, was driving his wagon, laden with boxes for Feist 
& Weld, wholesale dealers in wines and liquors, into 
the alley which separates the warehouse of that firm 
from Ballard’s Block, his horses became frightened, and 
getting down from his wagon to ascertain the cause, he 
found the body of a woman lying against the south wall. 
She was well— even richly — dressed, and apparently of 
middle age; the pocket of her dress was turned inside 
out, and there were other indications that she had been 
robbed of both money and jewelry, although several rings 
were yet upon her fingers and an ear-ring remained in 
her left ear. The body lay upon its left side with hands 
clinched and livid spots upon the neck, indicating 
strangulation. There were also bruises upon the head. 
The clothing was water-soaked and evidently it had lain 


MURDER MOST FOUL 


191 


in the alley all night. The linen bore the initials L. 
W. and these were the only traces by which to identify. 
The woman was tall and lai%e, with black eyes, high 
cheek-bones, a large mouth, and dark hair elaborately 
dressed and slightly streaked with gray. 

“The body was carried to the nearest station and 
thence to the morgue. 

“Up to this moment no clue to her identity, or trace 
of her murderer has been found." 

This account was read by thousands and reappeared 
the same in substance, in all of the city papers. 

It was not read by Rufus Carnes who might have iden- 
tified the dead woman, and given suspicion a clue to fol- 
low; nor was it read by the chief of police, until the 
day had passed. But it was read by the clerk of the 
hotel which had sheltered Mrs. Lucretia Warham, and 
it led to a consultation between the clerk and proprietor, 
very private, very important and very interesting, as it 
progressed, ending in the departure of the clerk who 
took his way toward the morgue, while the landlord, ex- 
ceedingly nervous and wearing a look of anxiety, filled 
the vacancy behind the register. 

The account in the next morning^s issue of the “Owl” 
filled three columns and* was very interesting — and yet 
all that it said might have been condensed into much 
smaller space. 

It began at the beginning, and gave a brief biograph- 
ical account of “Honest Hans Riesen," who found him- 
self in print for the first time, Hans being an orderly man 
who never resorted to beer, brawls and the police court 
to gain for himself brief notoriety, describing minutely 
the finding of the body, the body itself, its removal to 
the station and the morgue. It gave a “line drawing" 
of the scene; the alley and a portion of the buildings, 


192 


A SLENDER CLUE 


marking graphically the opening and the exit, the spot 
where the body lay, and the precise point in the alley 
where Hans Riesen’s nea* horse first pricked up his 
ears. It expanded and repeated, reveling in all the hide- 
ous details, so necessary to the success of a highly moral 
family newspaper, so hurtful to the youth of a sensation- 
burdened city, so disagreeable to the average reader, so 
detrimental to the officer who, while seeking to unravel 
a mystery, finds his doings chronicled, misconstrued, 
guessed at, manufactured ready to his hand. 

After a column of description came these paragraphs, 
headed — 

“identification. 

“This morning at a quarter before eleven a young man 
well-dressed and with an anxious look upon his face 
elbowed his way through the crowd thronging to view 
the body, and at almost the first glance uttered an excla- 
mation of horror. He was well nigh unnerved by the 
spectacle before him, but soon calmed himself and push- 
ing his way through the eager crowd sought a private 
conference with the officers in charge. 

“His statement was brief, but it threw some light 
upon the mystery. 

“His name is Henry Waters and he is day clerk at the 
Avenue House, B — Avenue. He had recognized the body 
as that of one Mrs. Warham, who had been several days 
at the Avenue House, registering as a resident of some 
small town in the interior. Mrs. Warham left the hotel 
on Saturday evening taking with her no baggage, and had 
not since been seen. Her room had remained locked 
and her trunk and other luggage within it. But the 
proprietor of the house, as well as Mr. Waters, was be- 
ginning to feel considerable uneasiness when the de- 
scription of the murdered unknown in the morning papers 


MURDER MOST FOUL 


193 


awakened in their minds the fear that the unfortunate 
woman might prove to be their missing guest. 

“The identification was beyond question. Mr. Waters 
even recognized the dress and mantle worn by the de- 
ceased. Later in the day the proprietor of the Avenue 
House and several of the servants viewed the body and 
knew it for that of the lady who called herself Mrs. 
Warham. 

“Measures are being taken to discover the friends or 
relatives of the dead woman, and also to hunt down her 
destroyer; thus far, however, nothing has been learned 
concerning the former, and no clue has been found by 
which to trace the latter,” etc., etc. 

As on the day before, this long-drawn-out account of 
horrors, known and conjectured, was eagerly read by 
many. 

In the private office of Rouke & Colton, a dignified 
gentleman, bald-headed and elderly, read it twice over. 
Beginning with scant interest, starting violently, and 
uttering an unintelligible sound as the reading pro- 
gressed, starting up at last, agitated, nervous, but know- 
ing fully what he must do, and doing it promptly though 
feeling vaguely that fate had treated him with unde- 
served disrespect, in bringing to him a client, a stock- 
holder, to serve whom he, Elias Colton, who ran in a 
groove and lived the life of a dignified automaton, must 
visit — of all places on earth — the morgue. 

But he did visit it; and as one result of his visit, a 
message to John Warham went speeding over the wires. 

As a second result, the body of Lucretia Warham was 
withdrawn from the public gaze, properly encoffined and 
respectfully cared for; and, a little later, when the doc- 
tors had finished their examinations, and consulted, and 
disagreed, and given their final opinions, and the coro- 
ner^ s mysterious rite, resulting in nothing, was at an 


194 


A SLENDER CLUE 


end, all that remained of Lucretia Warhain, escorted 
by a respectful and respectable clerk of the house of 
Rouke & Colton, was carried to her country home and 
there laid in the grave. 

One day, during the week which was given over by 
the newspapers to wordy chronicles, all based upon the 
murder of Mrs. Warham, an announcement, of lesser 
interest, but still interesting, appeared in one or two of 
the morning papers. 

These paragraphs chronicled the arrival at the Gallo- 
way House on a certain day, of Mr. Barney O’Calahan, 
or a person calling himself by that name, presuming 
himself, and presumed to be, the original O’Calahan of 
theatrical fame, Irish by descent, and by choice a citi- 
zen of San Francisco. This individual, so said the 
chronicles, had remained over night in the hotel, sup- 
ping and breakfasting heartily, and seeming in the best 
of spirits. He had signified his intention to remain for 
some time in the city, but had sauntered out from the 
hotel office shortly after breakfast, and had not been 
seen since. The “valise” which remained in his room 
contained a half-worn suit of clothes, a change of linen, 
a “quantity of photographs,” most of them “celebrities 
of the stage,” some letters, “apparently penned by fair 
fingers,”, and very little else. 

Persons knowing anything concerning this disappear- 
ance were invited to call upon the landlord of the Gal- 
loway. 

To complete the history of Mr. O’Calahan, and set 
forth all that is known of his mysterious disappearance, 
it is only necessary to copy a paragraph from the “Owl,” 
bearing date a week later. 

“not the man he seemed. 

“It is now pretty clearly established that the man, 


MURDER MOST FOUL 


195 


calling himself Barney O’Calahan, the comedian, who 
registered at the Galloway House not long since and 
who disappeared next morning, leaving his baggage be- 
hind him, was not the genuine O’Calahan whose Hiber- 
nianism and eccentric acting, has won the admiration 
of theater- goers all over the land. He is believed to 
have bej^n an impostor who for reasons best known to 
himself, indulged in a brief masquerade, at the expense 
of the Galloway House, which may perhaps, barely 
repay itself for the inroads made upon its larder by the 
healthy and hearty Mr. O’Calahan, should it succeed 
in disposing of his abandoned wardrobe, at a little more 
than first cost. No floater, no victim of thugs and sand- 
baggers, no suicide in any way answering the descrip- 
tion of the whilom Barney, has been brought to light in 
this or any other city, so far as heard from, and the 
inference drawn by the police is, that the spurious 
“comique” has found for himself a new occupation, less 
amusing perhaps, but more secluded, and it is to be 
hoped more honorable and profitable.” 

Whether right or wrong the “Morning Owl” was left 
undisputed possession of its opinion, for Barney O’Cal- 
ahan never came out from his “seclusion,” and Rufus 
Carnes, when it came under his notice, was already so 
burdened with weightier matters, so beset with doubts 
and queries of a more important nature, that he could 
bestow upon it only a grin and a passing comment; and 
so ended the career and the history of Barney O’Cala- 
han. 


CHAPTER XXII 


AT WARHAM PLACE ^ 

While Rufus Carnes is lying in his darkened room, 
carefully watched by doctor and nurse, and closely 
guarded from the distractions, the news, and noise , of 
the outside world, let us follow Richard Stanhope, who, 
while as yet unconscious of the fact, has taken into his 
sinewy young hands the chain of fate which, beginning 
at the door chf a prison, upon a spring morning, its strange 
growth is lengthening and adding to its links, until 
stretching from ocean to gulf, it encircles its victims 
and brings Rufus Carnes and Edward Percy Jermyn, late 
Nos. 43 and 46 of the state penitentiary, together once 
more; face to face, hand against hand, wit opposed'to 
wit, in a bitter contest. But how should Richard Stan- 
hope guess at all this, as he journeys toward an un- 
known village, upon an unknown mission? 

And yet, even as he goes, he is lengthening the chain. 
He is not thinking of Fate or of the future as drawn 
by a steed, fleet, tireless and obedient, man’s chief est 
triumph over nature, he flits through the summer land- 
scapes, northward. He is going to Upton. He knows 
that; and he is expected by one John Warham. Beyond 
this he does not think; he is full of youth and health 
and vigor; a prime cigar is between his lips; a late 
periodical, its pages half uncut, lies upon his knee. If 
you saw him as he rode through the early twilight, his 
eyes brightly gleaming, his mouth half-smiling, his fresh, 
frank face so youthful, so ingenuous, so careless, good- 

196 


AT IVARHAM PLACE 


197 


humored, you might have fancied him a home-going 
student, not over studious; a mother’s darling, and 
a young girl’s hero; but never a man-hunter, keen, cool, 
clever, cultured by strange experience, wise beyond his 
years. For “Dick” Stanhope, good-looking, light-hearted, 
flippant Dick, had never known a home, a mother’s love 
or a sweetheart’s caress. 

It was late afternoon when he arrived in Upton, a 
pretty pretentious little town that, because of its prox- 
imity to various small lakes and streams, assumed, in 
summer, fashionable airs, and called itself a "summer ^ 
resort.” The town was beginning to brighten in antici- 
pation of coming guests, but our friend made his entry 
upon the scene of action almost unobserved, having first 
thrown aside his cigar as not quite in keeping with his 
habiliments, nor with the look of demure and youthful 
dignity with which, upon stepping from the coach to 
the platform of the station, he instantly clothed his face. 

Mr. Colton had given him one useful hint, and this 
formed the foundation for his plan of action. 

John Warham was a “school director," and, before 
the evening had fairly closed in, Richard Stanhope, 
armed with instructions by which to reach the houses of 
John Warham and four other “directors,” set out on foot 
for “Warham’ s big house, three miles on the south road." 

It was indeed a big house, awkward and showy, with 
its look of “newness” fresh upon it ; and it was ap- 
proached by a long lane, shut from the meadows on 
either hand by a wire fence, barbed and unsightly, which 
went straight up to the house that, standing upon a 
slight eminence, overlooked the road and many acres of 
the Warham possessions. Back from the big house 
stretched a dense grove, and on either hand a little in 
the rear, and at a respectful distance, stood barns, grana- 
ries and out-buildings many, all gleaming with new paint. 


198 


A SLENDER CLUE 


He found John Warham seated in the dining-room, 
shivering that May evening-, beside a smoldering grate 
fire. A thin, dark, nervous old man, not yet recovered 
from the sickness which followed his daughter's strange 
disappearance; scarcely able to walk from his bedroom, 
which opened upon the room in which he sat, to his 
chair beside the hearth. 

This man had counted the hours which must elapse 
before he might reasonably look for a living return from 
his message to Elias Colton, and he was quite prepared 
,to anticipate the announcement of his visitor. 

“Eh! a young man to see me? Of course! show him 
in, Susan — stupid!” 

The last word uttered behind his hand, and followed 
by a dry cough, as Susan shut the dining-room door, 
and went to do his bidding. 

“Good evening, eh! yes,” he said as Stanhope bowed 
before him and extended toward him a card having the 
name of Elias Colton on one side, and a few penciled 
words upon the other. “Colton, eh! sit down young man, 
sit down! Susan, a chair here! now you ma}^ go, no — 
stop! have — have you had your supper, Mr. a Mr. — ” 

“Brown,” said Stanhope gravely; “I took supper in 
Upton, Mr. Warham.” 

“Umph, Brown!” John Warham’s words were always 
shot from his lips, his sentences jerky. “Then if you 
are quite ready to talk — ” 

“I am quite ready, sir.” 

“Susan,” his tone increasing in sharpness, “you may 
go-go!” 

Susan, a woman tall and grim, almost as grim as her 
master, shot one keen glance at the new-comer and went. 

"Now Mr. Brown," began John Warham with brisk 
eagerness, "if you will just step to that door and see that 
she isn’t outside with her eye or ear already at the key* 


AT IVARHAM PLACE 


199 


hole — that woman is my second cousin, and she’s liable 
to take advantage of the fact — she isn’t there, eh? now 
if you’ll just step down that hall and shoot the bolt of 
the other door, it leads to the kitchen, we’ll have her 
fast.” 

Smiling to himself. Stanhope secured the two doors 
and came back to the fire-place. 

"On second thought,” said his host, “won’t you go and 
see that the front door is locked; some of them might 
fancy slipping in that way; they are very anxious about 
my affairs. They can’t make anything by listening at 
these windows; they’re too high up. There’s no balco- 
nies and that kind of flummery about this room, thank 
goodness! umph!” 

He stopped abruptly seeing that Stanhope was already 
half-way down the long hall. 

When he had turned the key of the door leading out 
upon the lawn in front, the young detective came back 
and sat down opposite the old man, the smile of amuse- 
ment yet upon his . face. Thus for a moment they 
looked at each other, the smile upon the youthful face 
growing broader; the elder face becoming grim. 

“So Colton has sent you!” Mr. Warham said sharply. 
'You’re too young.” 

Stanhope laughed lightly. 

“There are a few people in this world,” he said, "who 
think I’m too old.” 

“Oh ho!” referring to the card which he held close 
to his eyes, “Colton seems to think you’re old enough, 
Doy— 'skillful detective,’ he says.” 

“Does he,” said Stanhope indifferently. 

"Colton didn’t know what I wanted,” went on the old 
man half to himself* “I guess I ought to have told 
him.” 

‘T fancied,” said Stanhope, his face becoming grave. 


200 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“that your business with me was something concerning 
your lost daughter.” 

John Warham sprang up, and for a moment stood 
erect before his guest, then he fell back with a groan 
that embodied both mental and bodily anguish. 

"What do you know about my daughter?" he demand- 
ed, while he yet writhed with the pain caused by his sud- 
den effort. “Have you been — ” 

“I have not been indiscreet," said Stanhope quietly. 
“My business was with you; naturally I felt inclined to 
learn something about you before I left Upton.” 

“Yes, I suppose so! what did you learn?" 

“Not much. Only that your daughter had disappeared; 
that various tales were afloat; that your wife and you 
had quarreled — ” 

“Oh, you did! That we had quarreled, my wife and I, 
3^ou did/ what else did you hear, eh?" 

“Not much," again said Stanhope, rising and standing 
beside the high mantel, one shoulder resting against its 
edge. 

‘You^re lying!" said the old man with a snap of his 
yellow teeth. “What did you hear about me? out with 
it! I ain’t thin-skinned; what did you hear?" 

“That you are rich." 

“Umph! of course." 

“Stingy." 

“Oh, ho!" 

“Hard to deal with. Hard to live with. * 

The old man drew himself erect in his chair and 
gazed at his visitor with growing interest. 

“You’re a cool fellow,” he said; 'T wonder if you/ re 
thin-skinned. ” 

“On one point only,” smiling and running a shape- 
ly palm over his close cropped head. “I don’t like my 
youthful appearance commented on. It’s my one weak- 
ness. ’ 


y4T IVARHAM PLACE 


201 


“You^ll get over it. Do you think you are old enough 
to find my daughter? How long have you been a detect- 
ive?” 

“Twenty-two years and some odd weeks and days, ” re- 
plied Stanhope promptly. "Do you want. mo. to find 370ur 
daughter?" 

The old man looked up quickly. 

“You’re a queer fellow!” he said. "Yes, I want you 
to find my daughter — if you can; I owe it to Colton 
to give you a chance. After all, Colton ought to know 
what you are worth. Yes, I want you to find Bertha." 
He sighed heavily. *T suppose- I shall have to start 
3 ’ou — you will want me to tell you the whole story; 
that’s the worst of it! I’ll tell you what I think, to 
begin — ” 

“Don’t!” Stanhope dropped his elbow from the mantel 
and went back to his seat near the old man. “I prefer not 
to know what you think, unless it is a certain clue. 
Better no scent than an uncertain or false one. How old 
is your daughter?” 

“Bertha was nearly nineteen." 

“Only child?” 

“No, my youngest. I have a married daughter, and 
one^besides Bertha — dead.” 

Stanhope eyed him keenly. 

“You believe that harm has come to your daughter?" 
he said interrogatively. 

“I think she’s been murdered — I’m sure of it.” 

“Why?” 

“Oh, for a hundred reasons. Bertha had no cause for 
running way; " he brushed his hand across his face and 
looked fixedly into the grate. Then his eyes came back 
to the face of the young detective, who seemed to be 
studying him intently. “Why do you look at me like 
that?” he said sharply; “what are you thinking?" 


202 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“I was thinking, sir, that you were hardly the man to 
understand a young girl, and her ‘reasons.’” 

"Oh indeed, and I suppose are just the man.” 

Stanhope laughed. 

"At any rate, ‘Pm not so old that I can’t imagine how 
young folks feel, sir. Was your daughter happy here?” 

"Happy! Well, upon my word you are a remarkable 
fellow! Happy? why of course! I suppose so. Why 
shouldn’t she be? she had everything she wanted." 

"Did she. Mr. Warham, I heard down there,” nod- 
ding his head in the direction of the village, "that her 
room remains just as she left it. That you — " 

"It does. And I’ve got the key; do you want to see 
it? Upon my word I believe you have some sense." 

"Thank you. Yes, I want to see this room. Who is 
in your house except this second cousin, Susan?" 

"A girl, I forget her name, if I ever knew it. She 
came to help Susan the day my wife went away. Then 
there are two men, my hands.” 

"Eh?”' 

"Farm hands. What do you want of them?" 

"Nothing at present. Can’t we call up this Susan? 
I want her to show me the room and — " 

"Why of course; go to that lower door, unlock it, 
and call ‘Susan’. You may have to yell, she pretends 
to be hard of hearing sometimes.” 

Stanhope arose, took a step toward the door indicated, 
and then paused and turned toward the old man. 

"Mr. Warham,” he said in a tone that was strangely 
gentle, "you are trying to make a brave showing, and I 
like to see it, but .you have been very sick; I heard that, 
too, in the village. You are weak and full of anxiety. 
Suspense is racking your nerves'. Let me look over the 
premises to-night and let me talk with this Susan; she 
can tell me many things that will spare your feelings 


y4T IVARHAM PLACE 


203 


and your strength. In the morning you and I will talk 
the matter over; you shall tell me your opinion, and, if 
I have formed one, I will tell you mine. Then, if we 
cannot agree, I will go back and Mr. Colton shall send 
you a better and an older msin.'' 

For a moment the old man’s eyes met his, full of im- 
patience and doubt, then his head drooped and he rested 
it upon his hand. 

“Suit yourself,” he said reluctantly. "I suppose you 
know what you will get from a woman like Susan? Gar- 
rulous gossiping — ” 

“So much the better,” said Stanhope briskly. “One 
thing though — this Susan is she — was she a — fond of 
your daughter?” 

John Warham lifted his head, then dropped it again. 

“Yes,” he said huskily, “Susan was fond of Bertha — 
in her way.” There was a break in his voice, he lifted 
his right hand and clutched at his throat as if the troub- 
le were there; after a moment of silence he glanced up 
furtively. The young detective was unlocking the inner 
door and in another moment his voice rang down the 
hall. 

“Susan — Susan!" 

The old man fumbled in a pocket for a red silk 
handkerchief, with which he hurriedly wiped his 
eyes; then thrusting it back again, he drew himself once 
more erect in his chair and so awaited their coming. 

“I may as well tell you,” he said, when Susan had 
appeared and disappeared again in search of a lamp, “I 
may as well tell you that Susan disliked the present Mrs. 
Warham as much as she liked — my girl. I suppose,” 
with something which he evidently intended for a face- 
tious smile, spreading itself over his careworn, haggard 
face, “that you may as well get your items of family his- 
tory out of Susan. Maybe — ahem, she can tell you bet- 


204 


A SLENDER CLUE 


ter than I could, anything you happen to want to know 
about my — about Mrs. Warham. But I want to have 
my say about Bertha — when the time comes. I shan^t 
go to bed. Pm going to wait up and I’ll be here when 
you comedown. YouMl stop here to-night. Susan, d’ye 
hear? The young man must have a room made comfort- 
able.” 

‘T hadn’t thought of anchoring here," said Stanhope, 
looking toward Susan who was just entering; "but per- 
haps it will be as well. The key, Mr. Warham. Thank 
you. Now madam, or miss — ” 

"Miss,” said Susan with a touch of asperity. 

"Miss — Susan, will you lead the way?” 

When they had reached the door of the rooms that 
had been Bertha Warham’ s. Stanhope took the lamp 
from the hand of the spinster and said quietly, with his 
eyes fixed upon her face: 

'T shall want to talk with you, presently, when that old 
man has gone to bed. Can you sit up late, if neces- 
sary?” 

The woman nodded. 

‘T don’t hope to find much here, but 1 think he ex- 
pects us to begin in this way. Hadn’t you better sit 
with him until I come down?” 

"I always sit with him,” she said; "he ain’t fit to be 
alone.” She turned to go, looked back, hesitated, and 
came back. Stanhope looked up with his hand upon the 
lock. 

"If you find anything,” she said softly, "anything that 
will cheer him up a little, try—try to put the bright side 
out, till — till he gets better.” 

The detective nodded, and came a step nearer. 

"You are afraid — ” he began. 

"I’m afraid of a good many things. If you’re as sharp 
as you look, you will find out something in there.” 


AT JVARHAM PLACE 


205 


"Oh!” said Stanhope. "Then you don’t think Pm too 
young?" 

‘‘I guess you know your business,” she said with a grim 
smile. "Them eyes wasn’t put into your head for noth- 
ing.” 

"Thank you. I hope you will continue to think so. 
Why do you think I will find something in here?” 

"Because," nodding significantly, "I know Bertha War- 
ham. If I could ’a’ got into that room — ” 

A sudden sound bejow caused her to start. 

"There, he’s thrown down his hickory cane. He alius 
pretends that he dropped it, but I know what it means. 
He thinks I’ve been up here long enough. ITl sit up 
for you — till daylight if necessary.” 

She struck a match against the wall beside her and 
hurried downstairs by its light, and before her feet had 
touched the lower step, she heard a door close above and 
knew that the young detective was face to face with 
whatever of mystery there might have been locked within 
Bertha Warham’s deserted rooms. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


WITHIN THE MAZE 

The young detective opened the door of the room, 
which was to give him a clue to the personality of 
the missing girl, in a mood extremely passive. 

. But his first impression upon stepping across the 
threshold was one of surprise; his lips gave vent to a 
sound that was half whistle, half-exclamation; then he 
turned sharply, removed the key from the lock, and 
closed the door, relocking it again upon the inside. 

Just a moment ago, while he stood outside her door, 
Bertha Warham was to him an unknown quantity; 
unknown, and — uninteresting. Now, he could almost 
see the girl who had inhabited that room. It was full 
of her, she seemed to mock him from behind its dusky, 
half-revealed adornments. 

He put down the lamp with quick animation, and 
thrust a thumb and finger into his waist coat pocket; 
reaching up with the unoccupied hand to draw down- 
ward a beautiful swinging lamp, which hung from the 
center of the ceiling just above a table that was unique 
indeed. 

"Light,” he muttered, "more light," accompanying his 
words with brisk movements, and pushing the lighted 
lamp upward. It threw a bright glow about the 
room and showed him a glimpse of an alcove behind a 
‘pair of crimson curtains on the side of the room near- 
est the door by which he had entered. 

What a strange room to find in that house! How differ- 

scte 


IVITHIN THE MAZE 


207 


ent from all that was outside! from all about it! Was 
Bertha Warham as different from the oid man down- 
stairs; from the woman Susan, the people of Upton, as 
was this room from those below with their stiffness, 
their ugly angles, and inharmonious fittings? Near the 
small table stood a chair, broad, low, softly cushioned, 
covered with some rich gleaming fabric, all strewed 
with strange Japanese figures, and daintily aswing upon 
springs and frame of bronze. 

Stanhope turned the wick of the glowing lamp still 
higher and sitting down in the cushioned chair began a 
slow survey of the room. 

Everything about him was vivid, striking, full of 
character: and even Stanhope, unversed as he was in 
the higher branches of art criticism, could feel that much 
upon which he gazed was bi^.arre and strangely out of 
place in the boudoir of a young lady — for a boudoir this 
room was evidently intended to be. 

“She had everything she Wanted," mused Stanhope 
aloud, his voice sounding oddly to himself in the 
stillness about him. “She certainly had everything she 
wanted in the line of furniture and “fixens, " and again 
he let his gaze wander about him. “If she had not 
stopped, her indulgent papa would have been compelled 
to enlarge this room if not the house. It would be 
difficult to crowd in another passenger here.” 

The room was indeed filled; half a dozen easy-chairs 
of various sizes and varying patterns, each unique in 
its way, oddly carved, quaintly upholstered, peculiar 
for its shape or texture and no two alike; tables and 
brackets, and shelves that were fantastically decorative; 
oddities in bronze, brass, carved wood, and ebony; pict- 
ures upon brackets and easels; a weird death-scene in a 
darkened room; a driving storm from which a woman 
with a haggard face and despairing eyes looked out 


A SLENDER CLUE 


through night and darkness; the portraits of two famous 
athletes, handsome fellows, both perfect specimens 
of animal beauty; opposite these a group of lovely 
heads; children with angelic eyes, soft fair curling hair, 
and dainty curves and coloring; upon an easel in a remote 
corner was a richly mounted engraving, a pack of hounds 
in full cry, leaping ditches, tearing through hedges — a 
picture to delight the eye of a sportsman; and upon the 
floor beside it a companion piece, a pair of noble 
horses awaiting their riders, and beside them a lady, tall 
and stately,distributing her favors equally between them. 

“Queer pictures for a woman’s fancy,” mused Stan- 
hope, rising and crossing the room to inspect the;^i more 
closely, and then he noted that among all the scenes 
depicted there, paintings, drawings, photographs, the 
latter abundant and exhibiting a varied taste in their 
selection, this pictured woman beside the horses was the 
only pictured woman to be seen. He turned over the 
photographs, and made a tour of the room, examining 
brackets and tables and their odd and pretty adorn- 
ments. 

“Queer again,” he soliloquized, pausing before a hand- 
some miniature cabinet. “Not a photograph album nor 
a book of autographs in the entire collection. Strange 
girl!” 

Next to come under his eye was a quaint little writ- 
ing-desk, broad and low with gilded carvings and painted 
panels; two small brass lamps turning easily in their 
brackets were attached to the wall on either side; Stan- 
hope turned them outward and lighted both. 

“Still more light,” he muttered. “I begin to think 
that this subject will require all the light we can 
muster; now for the alcove.” 

It was large enough to be called a room, in that house, 
and indeed was so called by those who believed “a door 


IVITHIN THE MAZE 


209 


to be a door ’’ whether it swung on its hinges, or hung 
suspended from a brazen rod. 

Behind the flowing curtains Stanhope found a floor 
of wooden mosaic, half-hidden under rugs of all hues 
and sizes, a lace-draped brass bedstead, a dressing-case 
of ebony, and accessories of black, white and vivid rose 
color. 

In each room was a tiled grate, but while that in the 
outer room stood open with ashes strewn upon the 
hearth, the one within the alcove was tightly shut, the 
fire-board in its place and a small Japanese screen set 
before it. 

Stanhope, trained to take note of small things, noted 
this, a^d once more he found time to comment, and 
to think: 

“Everything in this room means something." He 
seated himself in a rose-covered dressing-chair, and 
looked up and down. “It’s as full of character as he 
bent suddenly forward, attracted by a bit of pale blue 
and gilt, that showed itself from under the screen, and 
with a quick movement, propelled the dressing-chair to- 
ward the object. It proved to be a book-mark, long 
and narrow, and with the initials qf its owner em- 
broidered upon it in gold thread. As he pulled it 
toward him, he met with more resistance than might 
have been expected from a thing so frail. He aban- 
doned the chair, and drew away the screen. The ribb#n 
was held fast by the painted fire-board. He pulled 
sharply, and the board seemed to give way, and then he 
noticed that it was very clumsily secured; wedged, on 
one side with a bit of card-board, and upon the other 
with a fragment of what might have been an ivory 
paper-knife. 

“It looks like a woman’s work,’’ he muttered, and 


210 


A SLENDER CLUE 


then he drew a finger across tljat portion of the hearth 
that had been between the fire-board and screen. 

“Not much dust,” making the second experiment, and 
critically examining his finger, and the trail it had left 
upon the polished metal. “A two weeks’ accumulation, 
perhaps, not more. Ah-h!“ He turned swiftly, pushed 
back the chair, and stretched out his hand toward the 
screen. At that moment, something else caught his eye, 
something that had been at first concealed by the dra- 
pery of the dressing-chair, and which, while he stood upon 
the hearth, after drawing forward the chair, was directly 
behind him. It was a heap of cast-off clothing, thrown 
carelessly down, as if by a hasty hand, and this disorder 
was concealed by the low dressing-chair. Stanhope 
looked down at them for a moment, and then returned 
to the fire-place. He had learned more in Upton than 
he had told John Warham, and his ideas of missing 
Bertha were not so vague as might have been supposed. 
He had found it easy — it is always found easy — to set 
people gossiping about a sensation, “be it mystery, 
murder, scandal or what not.” He had even ventured 
a few questions, without arousing suspicion, for sus- 
picion, like a half-blind horse, can only watch one side 
of the road. “The Bertha Warham mystery” was now 
nearly two weeks old, and since the first day, the good 
people of Upton, who were not so burdened by their 
affairs as to be unable to give a little attention to 
those of their neighbors, had kept a sharp lookout for 
a possibly coming detective, than whom to the dwellers 
in a remote country town, no individual, be he priest 
or statesman, king or kaiser, is more interesting, fasci- 
nating, mysterious; and, it might be added— aside of 
course, in lowest whispers, lest it destroy the delusion 
of the “remote” ones — more generally disappointing. 

The Uptonites had kept an eye upon the railway 


WITHIN THE MAZE 


211 


stations, and all new-comers in Upton underwent, when 
they were good-natured enough to permit it, a rigid 
scrutiny and mysteriously worded cross-examination at 
the hands of the knowing ones, these invaluable acces- 
sories to a country town, who are chiefly conspicuous 
about groceries, saloons and street corners, and who aid 
in rendering the main street attractive by attitudinizing 
on the tops of dry-goods boxes, empty casks and bar- 
rels, otherwise past their usefulness. 

Stanhope knew how to make the village oracles yield 
up their wisdom, and his tardy coming was his safeguard 
against suspicion. Besides, had not the Uptonites col- 
lectively and individually already fastened the mark of 
identification upon no less than six individuals: two whole- 
sale drummers, a patent medicine man, a roving parson, 
out of a pulpit, a sewing-machine agent and a female 
book-canvasser. 

Of these six "possible detectives," each had a re- 
spectable number of believers — a large following of 
the unsanctified believed the parson "too fat for a par- 
son;" and the Upton milliner, with her two assistants, 
agreed, for once, with the dressmaker over the way, that 
the book agent was a "good deal more than she tried to 
make out," while another faction had reasons for be- 
lieving the machine agent worthy of their suspicions, for 
what depth of shrewdness and reasoning might not be 
expected from such a combination of red hair and foxy 
eyes as the bold knight of the "best-running-machine-in 
the-world ma’am," possessed beyond dispute. 

While the eyes of all Upton were thus occupied. 
Stanhope had entered unnoticed and taken possession 
of the field; and, from the ready tongues of the willing 
talkers, he had gathered a few notions of Bertha War- 
ham, quite different from any he might have gained from 
her father, Susan, or any other prejudiced person, 
whether friend or enemy. 


212 


A SLENDER CLUE 


When Stanhope pushed back the chair, leaving it 
almost in its former position, and turned again to the 
grate, it was with the air of a man who had grasped at 
something tangible, and ceased groping; and, in less 
time than we have taken to tell of his movements, the 
impromptu wedges were lying upon the floor, and the 
detective upon his knees before the hearth, was remov- 
ing the fire-board, and peering behind it. 

”Umph!” he said, beginning to work rapidly and with 
observant eyes. “It’s packed — newspapers,’’ removing a 
handful, “crowded in hit-or-miss. City papers, illus- 
trated — humph. ” 

They were packed indeed, firmly enough, but in a man- 
ner betokening haste; rolled together, twisted, crowd- 
ed in corners and crannies; when they were removed, a 
crimson cloth that had evidently served as a table-cover, 
was disclosed, and this concealed a collection of books, 
and two or three boxes, one of these tightly locked and 
without a key. 

Evidently this was not what Stanhope had expected, 
or hoped to find, and he glowered upon the heaped-up 
books in their rich bindings; then he began to remove 
them mechanically, opening each and holding it aloft by 
one of its covers while he fluttered the leaves in search 
of any fragment of writing that might fall therefrom. 

It was a motley collection for a young lady’s boudoir 
— historical romances, strong rather than savory; 
French novels, not so strong, and decidedly unsavory; 
poems — Byron, Swinburne, Keats, Goethe, Moore, 
Burns; essays, biographies. Two or three scrap books, 
queer collections of weird poetry, sententious quotations, 
and descriptive clippings, of plans, people, phenomena; 
odd, mysterious, gorgeous, wicked fragments of word- 
painting. 

One book, among the lot to come under his hand, yielded 


IVITHIN THE MAZE 


218 


to him, as a reward for his close search, a long pink 
envelope bearing the name of Bertha Warham in a slim, 
regular hand, and a date more than a 5^ear old. It con- 
tained a letter, a thin pink sheet closely written in the 
same slim hand that had superscribed the envelope; hav- 
ing assured himself of this much. Stanhope turned and 
placing the letter upon the chair behind him, went on 
with his search. 

Only one more fragment could he coax from the flut- 
tering leaves of Bertha Warham’ s favorite books, and 
this was a fragment only, the torn half of a letter writ- 
ten in pencil and apparently thrown aside and never 
finished — a letter written by Bertha Warham to some 
person unnamed. 

Assured that nothing more was to be found in this hid- 
ing place and wondering a little at the oddity of the con- 
cealment, the detective turned his attention to \he little 
satin-wood box, which he lifted, shook, held to his ear, 
and then rested upon his knee, while he reached in his 
pocket for a bunch of tiny keys — some of them mere 
shadows of steel and brass wire. 

After many trials the lock yielded, and as the lid of 
the box fell back Stanhope exclaimed triumphantly: 

“I thought so! — her diary,” and then as he took out 
the crimson-covered gilt-clasped volume and it opened in 
his hand, his exclamation of triumph changed to one of 
chagrin. 

More than half the leaves of the book were gone only 
a few written pages remained, and these the first in the 
book. 

"By Jove! — she^s a queer one,” muttered the young 
inquirer, “just enough to tantalize one, but we shall see 
One would think the young woman had anticipated my 
visit. Oh no, Miss Bertha Warham, you were not ab- 
ducted! not you!” 


^14 


A SLENDER CLUE 


He pushed the pile of books from him, and taking in 
his hands the pink envelope, the fragment of letter and 
the disemboweled diary, he went to the outer room; as 
he paused a second time before the low writing-desk 
some one knocked softly upon the door. He tossed the 
book and letters upon the desk and hastened to open it. 

The woman Susan stood without, a small lamp in her 
hand, her face full of anxious inquiry. 

“He is growing very nervous," she said, “and impa- 
tient to know what you are doing. Have — have you 
found anything? " 

Stanhope smiled and glanced back toward the desk; 
then he moved back and drew the door farther open. 

“Come in,” he said in an undertone. 

She entered the room quickly and herself closed the 
door. 

“Pm so glad, ’’ she began hurriedly; “I wanted a chance 
to tell you — you must not contradict him." 

“About what? ” 

“About Bertha. He thinks — he’s sure she has been 
unfairly dealt with. If you find reason to think otherwise 
and tell him so he — ” She hesitated. 

“He will give me my discharge, eh?” 

“Pm afraid so. I wish you’d humor him." 

“Look here," said Stanhope stepping aside so that the 
light would fall full upon her face, “do you think Ber- 
tha Warham has been unfairly dealt with?" 

“No," she said slowly; “I don’t." 

“Umph! Have you formed an opinion?” 

“No.” 

He turned and lowered the lamp, turning down the 
light to a mere glow. 

Come,” he said, taking the key from the lock and 
mciioning her to precede him. “Let us go down. I’ll 
hear the old man’s opinion first, and form mine later — 


fVITHIN THE MAZE 


215 


after I’ve heard yours. We will sit up an hour or two 
after he is in bed and out of the way. I want to ask you 
a few questions.” 

"If you’ll only quiet hwi^ and set his mind at rest, 
I’ll sit up all night if it’s necessary,” she said. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


FIRST CLUES 

It was a long wandering story that Richard Stanhope 
was obliged to hear, from the lips of John Warham. 

The old man seemed to have made up his mind in the 
interval of Stanhope^s absence, to help the young man by 
telling the whole story, from his point of view; and John 
Warham was not the man to imagine that there might 
be a point of view other than his. 

After an hour of talk all on one side^ statistical, nar- 
rative, reminiscent, he summed up his case with this 
sentence: 

"Now you see for yourself how ridiculous all this gos- 
sip is. Bertha never left her home of her own free will. 
She did what she liked with her own money, and with 
mine. / never crossed her and I never heard her com- 
plain. She was the brightest creature — always, and as 
sensible! well, I canT unravel it — I expect you to do that. 
But mind what I tell you, I don't pretend to say who did 
it, nor how it was done, but my girl has met with foul 
play. She ain’t the one to be abducted and kept a pris- 
oner — I know that — if you ever find her — you’ll find her 
dead. ” 

When he left the old man, Stanhope returned to Bertha’s 
rooms to await the coming of Susan, who tarried below 
to assure herself that the invalid was comfortably in bed, 
and then to attend to sundry domestic details, over- 
looked earlier in the evening, owing to the state of mental 
excitement into which, in spite of her stolid exterior, 

210 


/- 7 ;< 5 / CLUBS 


217 


the creature had been plunged at sight of the young 

detective. 

Meanwhile Stanhope, seated at the dainty writing-desk, 
had turned the brazen side-lamps inward and was slowly 
and with as little sound as possible assuring himself that 
the desk was locked, drawer and panel. 

He had no intention of pursuing his investigation 
under Susan’s sharp eye, and so he turned from the desk, 
walked the length of the two rooms and back again and 
then went and stood in the open doorway. There was 
no light in the hall above or below, but muffled sounds 
from kitchenward assured him that Susan was there, in- 
tent upon some housewifely after-thought, and he closed 
the door softly and going back to the desk took up the 
'long pink envelope. 

He gave to the dainty superscription a second half-ad- 
miring scrutiny and then slowly drew forth the letter, 
watchful lest any bit, a scrap of paper, a rose leaf, a 
fragment of some dainty fabric such as women are fond 
of sending each other, when they can in no other way 
create a ripple of envy at the thought of a dainty gar- 
ment possessed and worn by another, should escape him. 
Then with an air of growing interest he unfolded the 
sheet, pink-tinted like its envelope, and exhaling a sub- 
tle perfume. 

As his eye traveled slowly down the page, an observer, 
had there been one, might have noted a change in his 
face, a quick kindling of the eye, an alertness that 
seemed to grow and spread itself from the mobile feat- 
ures to his very finger-tips; and as he turned the page, 
he made one of those forward movements, a sort of in- 
voluntary adjustment of the entire body, a settling and 
disposing movement, followed by instant self-forgetful- 
ness and absorption in the work before him. 

When he had finished the letter he straightened himself. 


218 


A SLENDER CLUE 


looked about him, the alert expression still upon his 
face, and then returned the letter to its envelope, and 
put it, together with the fragment of paper he had 
found, into the pocket of his loose coat. Then, for full 
ten minutes, he sat with his fingers drumming a brisk 
tattoo upon the desk, and his eyes turned expectantly, 
almost impatiently toward the door. 

At the sound of a closing door he arose quickly and 
peered out into the hall. A light seemed moving toward 
the foot of the staircase, and then came flickering up- 
ward, and in a moment the candle and Susan’s face ap- 
peared half-way up the stairs, and Stanhope drew back 
and held the door wide open. 

Susan came slowly into the room and he noted the 
anxious look upon her face, and that she carried the 
candle in her left hand while the right was hidden in a 
capacious pocket. 

She started and winced as her eyes suddenly encoun- 
tered the brightness that the three lamps shed about the 
oom, and then turned back and put her candle down 
outside, after which she re-entered, shut the door, and 
stood leaning against it. 

“Sit down,” said the detective nodding toward one of 
the luxurious chairs and himself returning to the seat by 
the desk. 

“No,” she said in a kind of breathless trepidation, “I 
can’t — I never co^ild sit in this room,” glancing involun- 
tarily at her simple calico gown; then suddenly, with- 
drawing her hand from her pocket, she held toward him 
a cabinet photograph. “Here’s her picture— the last she 
had taken.” 

He took the picture and scanned it curiously. It was 
a companion to the one then in the hands of Carnes and 
the chief of police. After a brief scrutiny he laid it up- 
on the desk beside him, and standing before the woman, 


FIRST CLUES 


219 


as respectfully as if she were the mistress and not the 
maid, he looked at her for a moment with frank, half- 
smiling e3'es. 

“Does your cousin," he asked, “still think that I am too 
young for this sort of work?’’ 

Susan’s lips were firmly shut while she emitted from 
her nostrils a very emphatic and decisive sniff, then the 
lips unclosed. 

“This trouble’s been too much for him. He’s lost all 
his common sense," she said sharply. “I’ve seen Mr. 
Colton here, three — five times; he’s got my money and I 
know it’s in good hands; he wouldn’t have sent you here 
if he hadn’t known your ability." 

Stanhope laughed and then indulged himself in one 
of his characteristic but very unprofessional bits of frank- 
ness. 

“Between you and me,’’ he said, “Colton of Colton & 
Rouke never had personal dealings with a detective; 
somebody has told him that I know my business, and 
he’s taken their word for it. Colton wouldn’ t know any- 
thing more about detective ability than he does about a 
trotting horse, and Colton’s a Baptist deacon, Miss Susan. 
Now / know- a good many bad detectives, and one good 
one. I’m as good as the average — the bad ones, and the 
good one, well if I get into deep water I can call him 
in.” 

“What’s his name." 

“His name?” Stanhope was amused by her abruptness, 
and felt inclined to humor it. “His name is Carnes and 
he’s the best fellow in the world." 

“Humph!” ejaculated Susan and then .stood looking at 
him as if half-inclined to dispute the point. 

“I want to ask you a few questions to-night," said 
Stanhope, looking at his watch and making himself more 
comfortable by leaning against the corner of the writing- 


220 


A SLENDER CLUE 


desk, where he could look down upon the pictured -face 
of Bertha Warham as he talked, “Not many, because it^s 
late, and too much talk is confusing.” 

“I should think So,” again the sniff ; Stanhope began to 
think it her one cherished mode of strong expression, 
and indeed he was not far wrong. “Like ///>,” nodding 
toward the floor. 

“Exactly. I let hwi talk for his own benefit, now I 
want you to talk — for mitie." 

■'Well Pm ready.” 

“I see you are a woman of few words; I begin to think 
you are one to make 3^our words count.” Susan’s mouth 
relaxed a little of its grimness. “Her father tells me that 
you were fond of — this girl,” he tapped the photograph 
lightly. 

“I was,” — she hesitated as if rejecting the word, then 
for want of a better seemed to recall it, “fond of her.” 

“Yes; now tell me what sort of a girl was she — did 
she seem — to you?” 

“What sort?” 

“Yes; what was her character, was she — for instance 
— good-tempered?” 

“Yes, she v/as good-tempered — she was always good to 
me — and him. ” 

“Her father, you mean?" 

‘Yes.” 

‘And her step-mother — did they always agree?” 

“Not at first — they agreed to let each other alone — 
after a while. ” 

“I see. How did she occupy herself?” 

“How? she didn’t occupy herself, she just read and 
rode, when she wasn’t gone somewhere or didn’t have 
company? or else she curled herself up in one of these 
chairs and looked into the fire or out of the windows 
dreamy and idle; sometimes she wrote letters.” 


FIRST CLUES 


221 


"Was she ambitious, do you think?” 

Susan knitted her brows and gazed at him as if in 
doubt, then she said slowly: 

"Yes, I think she was, in a way. Bertha could coax 
and wheedle, but she liked to rule too; she used to 
come to the kitchen and to my room when we were 
in the old house; she didn’t do it so much after this 
one was built and she got these rooms fixed up. Yes, 
Bertha had high notions about things; she wanted 
elegant things, and to assov;iate with polite people.” 

"Do you think that she ever cared for this fellow — 
Larsen? " 

"Why, when Bertha was fifteen she liked anybody and 
anything that could amuse her. And she could twist 
Joe around her little finger — if he had been as cranky 
with her as he is with everybody else^ she wouldn’t 
have snapped her finger at him. Any other fellow that 
would fetch and carry for her would have pleased her 
just as well. I believe she thought more of her horse, 
‘Wild-bird,’ than she did of all the men she ever saw 
first and last. ” 

"Now there’s a point, and it’s an important one. 
Did this girl indulge in any romantic fancies? was 
there any one, do you think, for whom she might have 
cared more than she did for this Larsen — or — the man 
she was about to marry?” 

"She didn’t care for /i/m,” said Suscin quickly, "any 
more than she cared for Joe Larsen; but she meant to 
ir.arry him at first-— I am sure of it. As for anyone else, 
A,vliy — ” her face suddenly darkened, then flushed, and 
she moved a step nearer, "see here, young man, if you 
are getting any ideas into your head about that girl— 
if you think she ran away with anyone — with — witl) a 
you’re all wrong. That wasn’t in her — never! she 
was ambitious, and felt above us all; her ways were 


322 


A SLENDER CLUB 


not like ours, and no wonder, she came honestly by all 
her queerness; she was like her mother before her, only 
firmer, more decided, and more venturesome. But let 
me tell you t/iis — if Bertha Warham is alive to-day, she 
ain’t no man’s victim; and she ain’t — bad.” 

‘‘Thank you,” said Stanhope. ‘‘I admire your spirit, 
and your faith in the young lady. Tell me something 
about her mother.” 

"Bertha’s mother was city-bred and a perfect lady, 
delicate and refined; not over strong; and fond of read- 
ing romances and poetry; she was a living day-dreamer. 
I don’t see how she ever came to marry John Warham, 
though he was a good looking man in them days, too; 
she used to like to talk about her air-castles some- 
times, poor thing! but s/ie was weak where Bertha 
was strong. Bertha inherited her mother’s traits, but 
she had too much health and strength lo be satisfied 
with dreaming.” 

Stanhope stood silent, his eyes resting upon the 
photograph near him. , Her words seemed to have sug- 
gested some new thought. Finally he lifted his eyes and 
moved away from the desk. 

‘You say she was good-tempered,” he said slowly: 
"Now I am going to suppose a case: If some one had 
injured her— really been unjust or cruel or both, might 
she not have found in such an injury reason or excuse 
for leaving her home?” 

"You’re thinking of Mrs. Warham,” said Susan, 
almost smiling. "But it wasn’t her; Bertha never’d a’ 
left home on /ler account. That would please Mrs. John 
too much. No — Bertha wouldn’t be very quick to for- 
give an insult, nor slow to fight for her rights; she was 
cheerful and most always good-natured, as any lively, 
healthy girl is apt to be, but she had grii/' 

"About this Larsen now. Do you know what her feel- 
ings were during the last few months?” 


FIRST CLUES 


223 


Susan reflected. 

"I think," she said slowly, "that she had a kind of 
horror of him, toward the last. He didn’t take it 
very meek when she mittened him." 

"Oh! Where is he at this present time?” 

"I don^t know. He took it awful hard when she was 
missin’; he hung around here most of the time for pretty 
near a week. Then all at once he was gone. Mrs. War- 
ham said he was gone to try and find Bertha." 

There was a tinge of skepticism in her tone, as if 
Mrs. Warham^s opinions were not hers. 

Stanhope lifted his arm, drew down the hanging 
lamp, and turned it low. 

"It’s almost one o’clock," he said. “I won’t detain you 
longer. Oh! by the way — do you know a person by the 
name of Hildreth? Rose Hildreth?" 

For the first time Susan’s face betrayed surprise. 

"Rose Hildreth! well I declare! " then checking her- 
self with sudden severity. "Yes, Rose Hildreth was a 
school-mate of Bertha’s. They were great friends.” 

"Were?” 

"Yes. They wrote each other letters every other day, 
I guess. And Rose came down here and visited Bertha. 
That was a year and a half ago. Something happened 
that broke off the correspondence — I haven’t heard -Ber- 
tha mention her for many a day." 

"Do 3^ou know where Miss Hildreth lives?" 

"Yes, she did live in St. Paul; her mother kept a 
large boarding-house." 

"Thank you. Miss Susan; I won’t keep you longer; 
where am I to sleep?” 

"In the room just beyond this. The door is open; 
there’s water and a lamp*there. Do you want anything?" 

He answered in the negative, and they went out to- 
gether, Stanhope closing and locking the door. 


A SLENDER CLUE 


2U 

He found his room cosy and inviting. Susan had lighted 
a fire in a small grate, and there was luncheon upon a 
little table, such as good country housewives know how 
to prepare, and active youhg men with good digestives, 
know how to enjoy, especially if , the hour is one o^clock 
in the morning. 

There is nothing especially thrilling in the spectacle 
of a good-looking detective eating pumpkin pie, but the 
“thrilling situations’’ in real life are seldom comforta- 
ble ones, although they help us to appreciate the com- 
fort of quiet moments — and of pumpkin pie. Stanhope 
was quite content, sitting before the cheery blaze; he 
smoked a cigar, with hardly a thought of his surround- 
ings, but by and by the alert look came back to his face, 
and he drew the pink envelope from his pocket, and once 
more took out the letter. 

The first page was essentially feminine — and unimpor- 
tant. It told of dresses and beaux, and made brief 
mention of a new comic opera, and a new comic star — 
feminine. Stanhope’s eye passed rapidly over this page 
and a part of the next, but he lingered over the follow- 
ing sentences: 

“Pm sure if I had known when I sent you that news- 
paper-cutting that it would have set you off into such a 
tirade, Pd never have sent it. Of course Pm awfully 
sorry for poor Fanny and all that. Think of her throwing 
herself away like that and then throwing herself into 
the river! I suppose he 7ms an awfully handsome fel- 
low though. Well it’s good for him that he did’nt 
have a spirit like ymrs to deal with. There I if mamma 
saw that, she would make me tear up this letter; and 
that brings me back to the place where I started from. 
You know — no you don’t, but I am telling you as fast 
as I Gan— tlmt mamm.a sometimes reads your letters 


FIRST CLUES 


225 


— that is, sometimes I show them to her. And she 
thinks some of them very interesting, and bright, and 
witty; she says your ideas are startlingly original. But, 
you know, we have got into a very frank and free way 
of discussing things, and some of your letters I don’t 
quite like to show to mamma. Now this last letter, and 
what you said about poor Fanny, shocked her a little; 
she said it was too pronounced for a girl. I don’t be- 
lieve you know how you did go on; you must have been 
at white heat — of course / quite agree with all you said, 
only I never should have said it — and I’m convinced too 
that more than half, the most sensible, practical half 
of v/omankind, think just as we do; but it isn’t quite 
the talk for "sweet girl graduates” to indulge in. You 
know I keep all your letters, dear, as of course you do 
mine; such friends as we are! So when you write don’t 
say things too "awfully awful,” and don’t write back 
and crush me by saying that you never write slang. 

"How is that poor ugly Joe of yours? and is he yours? 
Or have you succeeded in shelving him? and does he 
stay quietly on the shelf where you put him? Do you 
know 1 have fancied he wouldn’t — 

"Oh-h ! Mamma rushes in; she has got word that we 
will have company to dinner — a Mr. Myers — old school- 
day acquaintance of papa’s, widower and immensely 
rich. Good-looking too for such an old man. I saw 
him last week at the theater. Dear me? I don’t see what 
he is coming here for.” 

Here the detective paused, uttered a short laugh, 
and giving the remainder of the letter the same rapid 
glance that he had bestowed upon its beginning, he re- 
turned it to its envelope. 

"I think,” he said half-aloud as he arose and put 
back a half-burned stick with the toe of his boot, "I 
think that I must call upon Miss Rose Hildreth.” 


226 


A SLENDER CLUE 


He put away the letter and took up the lamp. 

“If I can open that desk," he said to himself, ‘I may 
find more of these letters, and I need them.” 

He went back to Bertha’s room, closed and locked the 
door, relighted the lamps on either side of the desk, 
and began his work. 

First he tried the skeleton keys, and he found that 
one drawer yielded to their persuasion, but it contained 
nothing that could be of use to him; in fact it was 
almost empty. 

He pulled it entirely out, and thrusting his arm into 
the opening thus made, felt carefully of the lining at 
the back, tapping it lightly with his thumb and fore- 
finger; then he arose and pulled the desk away from the 
wall. 


CHAPTER XXV 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS 

From his pocket, Ke next produced another ring, 
larger than that which held the keys. To this was 
attached several steel implements, small but strong, and 
of varying shapes. With one of these he rapidly removed 
the screw that held the thin boards attached to the back 
of the desk. It fell apart, and Stanhope removed the 
sections, noting, while he did so, something white at the 
bottom of the open space. 

It was a letter without its envelope — a long letter 
written in a labored hand, blotted, misspelled, and 
signed, “Joe Larsen.” 

It was a wild and rambling document, filled with 
upbraidings and beseechings, alternated. It re 
counted his own acts of devotion, and charged her with 
falsehood, treachery, and deceit. It implored, and it 
threatened. It besought her to break off her approach- 
ing marriage, and fly with him; and ended with a hor- 
rible oath of vengeance, if she persisted in her inten- 
tions. “Much as I have loved you,” it said, “if I can- 
not prevent your marrying, otherwise, I will kill you, 
and end every,thing. I mean it, Bertha. Choose quickly. 
You shall never trifle with me again. Alive or dead^ 
you are mine." 

“A clue,” murmured Stanhope, as he put away the 
letter. “We must find Mr. Joe Larsen, and see what 
manner of man he may be.” 

The next morning saw Richard Stanhope leaving 
227 


^28 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Upton, as quietly as he had entered it. He had mastered 
the situation, so far at least, as John Warham and Susan 
were concerned; already these two silent people, en- 
dowed with a taciturnity that would have been skepti- 
cism in persons more worldly wise, were beginning to 
discern in him a masterly s’pirit, and, without half-recog- 
nizing it, to indulge in vague hopes— they hardly knew 
of what. 

“I want you to leave this business entirely to me," 
Stanhope had said, standing before John Warham, having 
just announced his intention; "I begin to see my way, I 
think ; but it may be a long road. You must let me work 
in my own way.” 

At this point the old man had nodded impatiently; 
"When 1 have anything to say I will say it; until then, 
the less we talk — ” 

"Yes, yes!” the old man broke in, "the less talk the 
better!” 

"Then we understand each other. I shall go away to- 
day, and should I not come back by to-morrow night, let 
us say, you may know that I have found a clue and am 
following it. I think that I shall come back, however.” 

It was late in the afternoon when the young detect- 
ive, well and fashionably clad, and looking every inch a 
gentleman, paused before a house in a quiet street, 
that bore upon its front the unmistakable signs of the 
shabby-genteel boarding-house, and hesitated a moment 
before ascending the steps and ringing the bell. 

He had already pulled at half a dozen bells, attached 
to as many doors, that had been indicated to him by 
the city directory, as the portals that gave shelter to 
various Hildreths; and each of the six had in turn de- 
nied all knowledge of a maiden named Rose. He was 
now almost at the end of his list, and somehow, he 
found himself unable to fancy that this house could 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS 


229 


possibly be the abiding place of the author of the pink 
letter, which he carried in his pocket. But, while his 
doubts increased, the door opened, and a slatternly serv- 
ant stood before him looking an inquiry. 

Stanhope^ s doubt was not apparent in his face or man- 
ner. He favored the girl with a half-smile, that brought 
an answering grin to her countenance, and asked with 
the air of an old acquaintance: 

"Is Mrs. Hildreth at home?” 

The grin faded from the girl’s face. 

"I guess ye couldn’t see her," she said slowly. 

"Why!" 

"She’s — ’Sick. She don’t see nobody." 

"Oh — indeed! Then perhaps I can see some other 
member of the family, Mr. Hildreth or — " 

"Why!" the girl fell back a pace. "There ain’t no 
Mr. Hildreth! He’s dead — long ago. Do you want a 
room?” 

Her movement gave him an advantage; before he 
answered, he was across the tlireshold. 

"You had better show me into the parlor, or some- 
where,” he said, with an air of authority — "and call 
someone, the housekeeper — or — ” He paused, as the girl 
made a sudden movement, and his eyes followed hers. 

"What is it, Jane?” 

A tall woman with a dark thin face stood at the top 
of the stairs — looking down upon them, and slightly 
frowning. 

"A gentleman wishes to see Mrs. Hildreth," replied 
Jane. And then, while the woman came slowly down the 
stair, she made a gesture, by which she seemed to wash 
her hands of him, and retreated kitchenward. 

When she had reached the foot of the stairs, the 
woman glanced backward over her shoulder, and then 
cAme quite close to Stanhope before she spoke. 


230 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Do you want to see Mrs. Hildreth." 

"Yes, madam — I — ” 

"Wait," she said, her tone low as if fearing to be over- 
heard, "are you an acquaintance — a boarder?” 

"No, Madam, I have a little business that — " 

"Come this way, " again interrupted the woman, her 
dark face growing darker; and she led the way to a 
gloomy little back parlor where she drew up a curtain, 
pushed open a shutter, and then turned to look at her 
visitor. 

He stood calmly before her while she surveyed him 
from head to foot. 

"Then you are a stranger to Mrs. Hildreth?" she said 
finally. 

"I am a stranger and my business is — rather impor- 
tant." 

"Mrs. Hildreth is ill, she does not see visitors;" she 
as still eying him closely. "May I ask the nature of 
your business?" 

"It concerns a Miss Rose Hildreth." 

Over the woman’s face surged a wave of angry crimson. 
"Young man," she exclaimed sharply," that is a name 
that is not spoken in this house! Did that girl send you 
here?" 

It was Stanhope’s turn to stare, and he did it to some 
purpose; the look of quiet unconcern left his face and the 
resolute glance with which he met hers caused her to 
start. 

"Let us understand each other," he said quietly; "are 
you a member of Mrs. Hildreth's family?" 

"I am her sister." 

"Oh, then you are the very person. You have a niece 
named Rose Hildreth." 

"Do you know her? " 

"I do not. You have such a niece?” 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS 


231 


“I wish to heaven I could say no!” she shut her teeth 
with an angry snap. "The littje viper!" 

"I don^ t understand your allusions to your niece, 1 
infer that she is not here.” 

“No, she is not here." 

"Will you tell me where I can find her?” 

“No! I thought you did not know Rose." 

“I never even heard of her until yesterday.” 

“Humph! and what did you hear yesterday?” her tone 
was growing aggressive. 

Stanhope’s face grew stern as he replied, borrowing her 
her own tone: 

“I heard that she might be called upon as an important 
witness in what may prove a criminal case. Madam, I am 
an officer with full authority to investigate this case. 
You will do well not to put obstacles in my way. I think 
you had better explain your remarks and tell me where 
■ ^ find your niece.” 

The woman sat down in the vacant chair, quite calm 
and serious, all traces of anger gone. 

“I am willing to tell you anything that I can,” she 
said, “if you really are an officer and not — ” she paused 
and looked fixedly at him — “what I at first thought you.” 

“What was that?” 

“Never mind,” stirring uneasily, “if you are what 
you say.” 

“Perhaps I had better convince you on that point.” 
He drew from a breast-pocket a folded paper and put it 
in her hand. 

It was a letter of authority signed by the city’s chief 
of police, and after reading it carefully she handed it 
back with a stiffly respectful air. 

“I don’t know what you want of Rose,” she began. “I 
hope it isn’t to bring more disgrace upon us — public 
disgrace." 


233 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"What 1 want is very simple," said Stanhope. "A year 
and a half or two years ^ago, she had a school friend with 
whom she corresponded for months. I want those 
letters. " 

“Oh! why I dare say they are in — ” she broke off ab- 
ruptly and bent her eyes to the floor. 

"In this house? is that what you were about to say?" 

He was still standing and she motioned him to a seat 
near her. 

"Sit down," she said; "I may as well tell you about 
Rose. Any boarder or servant in the house would, if I 
did not." 

"Quite true." 

"Well, to get the worst over, first: — Rose Hildreth 
ran away from her mother’s house nearly a year ago — 
disgraced." 

"Oh! " Stanhope uttered the ejaculation in spite of him- 
self. Could it be that Bertha Warham — he checked the 
thought and said simply: 

"Go on, madam." 

"There is not much to tell. It’s a common story enough. 
My sister is a little weak woman, ready to be duped by 
anybody. Her husband died seven years ago, and left 
her nothing but a small life insurance; it wasn’t enough 
to support them and educate Rose. The girl was pretty, 
and frivolous to the very ends of her fingers; she wanted 
to be dressed like the daughter of a banker, and she gen- 
erally was. Martha would go shabby herself, and scrimp 
the boarders, to give her finery; she thought Rose was 
born to marry well — was too good for common mortals. 
The girl has lived here among a house full of young fel- 
lows and flirting married women, and been spoiled by 
them all. She took to flattery like a duck to water; she 
was so good-natured that they all liked her; she was 
always laughing and singing and playing the piano. I 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS 


233 


liave lived liere since my brother-in-law died, but two 
years ago I went awa} and was gone more than a vear. 
Wd.iei) 1 came back I could see a change in the girl, but 
my sister never saw it, and it was useless for me to try 
and open her eyes; we had not agreed very well about 
her from the first, and Marth.a always felt that I disliked 
Rose. ” 

"Did you?” 

She had been looking out of the window while she 
talked, but now she suddenly brought her eyes back to 
his face. 

Something in his look caused lier to feel that it was 
not worth while to parry or dissimulate. 

“Rose W'as too much like her father,” she said coldly, 
“and I never liked him.” 

“Oh,” the young detective might have been a young 
lawyer instead. "So you saw the girl going wrong and 
did not speak. ” 

His witness now looked him full in the face; a gleam 
of resentment in her eyes. 

"If you are as smart a young man as you api)ear to 
think yourself, you must know that one can see a thou- 
sand things that seem to them proofs, but which they 
cannot present as proof to others.” 

"That’s true! ” said Stanhope smiling a 1 ittle and easily 
ignoring her. 

"Well, ^that was my position — toward the last I did 
remonstrate with Martha; but she was blind to the 
very end. She was candid and honest herself, and she 
thought that Rose’s happy go-lucky good humor was 
honesty. It wasn’t in her any more than it was in her 
father before her. But there it is. Martha thought Tom 
Meredith was a model man.” 

Stanhope sitting opposite her in a shabby arm-chair 
had dropped his chin upon his hand. He was studying 


234 


A SLENDER CLUE 


the woman before him, as he always, sooner or later, 
studied his witnesses. 

"I should think,” he said speculatively, "that a man 
who died leaving behind him that impression, could not 
have been a desperate character." 

"Umph! he did not leave that impression generally." 

"No! he does not seem to have done so — in your case." 
Then he arose and once more stood looking down at 
her. His questions had been abrupt, some of his com- 
ments almost brutal. But they had their meaning and 
their effect. 

"You say that this girl ran away; did she take her be- 
longings with her?" 

"No indeed. ” 

"Are they still in your — in her mother’s possession." 

"Yes,” she answered after a moment’s hesitation. 

"Well, as I said in the beginning, I want some letters 
that were in her possession, and, I presume, are still 
among her effects, as I have in her own hand-writing her 
assurance that she preserved the letters." 

"What letters?" 

"The letters written her by one Miss Bertha Warham. " 

"Oh! " he was quick to note the sharpness of her 
startled ejaculation and the look upon her face. 

"So you know Miss Warham?” he said quietly. 

"I — no. " 

"You know of her? You have heard her name before?” 

"Yes,” she said absently, and again turned her eyes 
to the window; she was evidently pondering her next 
words. 

"Well I should like to know anything that you can tell 
me about Bertha Warham, but first and most important, 
those letters; I am willing to beg, buy or burglarize 
theiji. " 

The eyes came back from the window; she seemed to 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS 


235 


have made up her mind. “What has happened to Bertha 
Warham?” she asked. “You said something about a crim- 
inal trial." 

"It may end in that. Bertha Warham has disap- 
peared. It is my business to find her." 

“Disappeared?" 

“Yes, vanished utterly, leaving no trace behind her." 

She looked at him fixedly for a moment and then sur- 
prised him by saying as if to herself: 

“I’m sorry! I liked that girl." 

“Oh!" said he, “1 thought you didn’t know her!" 

She laughed a short hard laugh; he could see that she 
was growing more at ease, and more confident. 

“What good would those letters do you?" she askfed, 
ignoring his comment. 

“Oh, come, we are getting on famously; you have 
those letters, or you know where they are. What good 
will they do me? That is my affair. The good it will 
do you to give them up is this: If we have the letters 
we may be saved the necessity for dragging this niece of 
yours, to say nothing of her mother and yourself, as as- 
sociate witnesses, into court, to tell what you know 
about Bertha Warham; be it much or little." 

“I will tell you what I know about Bertha Warham now. 
My sister has been utterly crushed since Rose turned 
out so badly. I thought she would get over it in time, 
but she don’t seem to. She is an affectionate soul, and 
Rose was lavish with her petting, and she had a way cf 
seeming to be confidential when really she was not, 
showing her letters, talking freely about her beaux and 
quoting their sayings. She always knew what to tell and 
what not to tell, well— I see you are getting impatient — 
when Rose ran away, her mother could not bear to go 
near her room, and of course we could not afford to shut 
it up, so I quietly went to work, changed everything in 


236 


A SLENDER CLUE 


it and distributed the things that Rose had called hers 
about the house, where her mother would not be apt to 
see them often. The bureau was an old-fashioned 
thing, and to improve the room for a new gentleman who 
had engaged it I put my dressing-case, which was new, 
in its place, and took the old bureau into my room. 
It was crowded full of things, and I packed the clothes 
in a trunk and had them taken to the garret, but one 
drawer was filled with knick-knacks and trumpery and I 
left that as it was for some time. One day I began look- 
ing things over, and among the rest there was a dec- 
orated paper box packed with letters; there were other 
letters, mind you, and I began reading them, thinking 
that it might be a good thing to show a few of the 
choicest to Martha; it might open her eyes and help to 
cure her of her fixed notions that Rose had been a poor 
victim instead of a hardened little sinner. Well, 1 began 
at the box and found that these were all from the same 
girl — suck letters! I read them all. Those in the box 
were very friendly letters, but among those loose in the 
drawer I found one which broke off the correspondence. 
That girl, hundreds of miles away, had guessed the truth 
about Rose from the letters she wrote, and cut her ac- 
quaintance." 

"And yet," said Stanhope, "there are people in Upton 
who think that Miss Warham ran away with a lover." 

"I don’t believe it! I tell you that girl’s entirely differ- 
ent from Rose. Perhaps she ran away, that would not 
surprise me, but the girl who wrote those letters never 
would be deceived by any man. She migiit burn a town 
if she took it into her head, or go to war in men’s 
clothes, or kill somebody, but she’s never taken Rose 
Hildreth’s track, 7iever." 

"Well," said Stanhope as if no more remained to be 
said, ‘ you are the second woman who has said that 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS 


237 


sort of thing about her since yesterday, which increases 
my interest in those letters. You will let me have them 
of course? You shall not be the loser by it.” 

"Yes,” she said after a momentary hesitation, "I don’t 
see why I shouldn’t — as it’s for a good purpose.” 

“It’s for a very good purpose,” he said. "It’s to help 
solve a riddle, and set a poor old man’s heart at rest.” 

After opening Bertha Warham’s letters. Stanhope 
decided to make his work as complete as possible by 
visiting Rose Hildreth. 

She had not tried to conceal her abiding place from 
those who might desire to seek her out; and her aunt, 
having become his all}^, told him where the misguided 
girl might be found, and added: 

"Don’t tell her that I gave you the letters. Don’t 
mention us if you can help it.” 

It was too late to see Rose that night, and he wished 
to be on his return journey at noon. So at ten o’clock 
in the morning he climbed the two flights of stairs which 
led to the "furnished room,” in a big dark store-building, 
which Rose Hildreth called her home. 

There was the sound of some sudden movement follow- 
ing his knock, and then the door opened a little way and 
a blonde and befrizzled head appeared in the aperture. 

There was a little start and a big stare from two round 
china-blue eyes, an instantaneous glance downward at 
a toilette somewhat disarranged and untidy, followed 
by a little toss of the head, and then the door opened 
wider and she stood before him half-defiant, half-coquet- 
tish, wholly challenging his admiration. 

That moment revealed her character to the young detect- 
ive. Shallow, vain, a pronounced coquette, thirsting 
for admiration. One of those kittenish, purring women 
who come into the world with their animal natures 
developedi and their souH dwarfed and 


238 


A SLENDER CLUE 


mant. What such a girl, woman shall become rests, not 
with herself, but with her surroundings; hedged about by 
luxury, sheltered from storm winds, protected from con- 
tamination, propped by stronger natures, she may become, 
as years roll on, a harmless and colorlessly correct 
member of society, a virtuous and vulgar gossip, a 
patient griselda; left to herself, face to face with the 
world and its problems — ah; the' kitten! She frolics and 
gambols in the sunshine, and is pleased with the empty 
rustle of the withered leaves that flutter to her feet; 
she is fair, and soft, and alluring; but a kitten’s day is 
fleeting; and then — ah, the felines, old and lean and 
battle scarred, that haunt the leads and make night 
hideous. That which is true of the first feline stage is 
true of the last. God pity the kitten! God save us from 
the cat upon the leads! 

“You are Miss Hildreth? “ asked Stanhope touching his 
hat and politely ignoring her smile. For this strong young 
fellow who had seen the world in some of its worst phas- 
es, and who had a ready sympathy for the erring unfortu- 
nate,loathed the vlcious,and despised the weak, with an ar- 
dor which time would yet soften and develop into char- 
ity. 

“Well I donH call myself, that nozVi' she said with a 
matter-of-fact candor. “I call myself Rose Foster.” 

“Oh! Then I suppose Mr. Reynolds was present at your 
christening?" 

“I don’t know Mr. Reynolds. Is he — a friend of yours? " 
She had moved back a pace and suffered the door to 
swing open, and he stepped within, laughing the while 
and closed it before he answered. 

She made no comment upon this but remained stand- 
ing near him with her hands lightly clasped, and the 
alluring half-smile that is an instinct with such women, 
upon her face. Inwardly she was thinking him a hand- 


j4 bundle of letters 


239 


some fellow, and wondering what had brought him to 
her door. 

Stanhope’s laugh was for her blunder, and his words 
convinced her of it. 

"1 see that you do not know Mr. Reynolds and his' 
'great works.’ No he is not a friend of mine, thank 
heaven!" 

She drew back a step, and the remnant of refinement 
left in her sent a flush to her already pink cheek, and 
rendered her soft little voice somewhat sulky. 

*‘You are a very cool person. I don’t think you had 
better make me a very long call." 

"I quite agree with you. Miss — Foster. Pray, don’t 
resent the Reynolds business. Your friend, Bertha War- 
ham, would have known all about him. Does she ' know, 
that you have changed your name?" 

‘‘I don’t know anything about Bertha Warham. ” The 
kitten was growing sullen, and seemed strangely devoid 
of feminine curiosity. 

‘‘Oh yes, you do, you know a great deal about her. Do 
you know where she is now?" 

‘‘I should like to know who sent you here to ask me 
such silly questions." She gave her head a little side- 
wise movement, and walked over to the window. 

"Well, I don’t mind telling you;" he advanced to the 
center of the room and laid a hand upon the lapel of his 
coat. "It was the chief of police who sent me." As 
he spoke he turned back the lapel, thus displaying an 
officer’s badge. 

There is something in the mere name of the police in- 
stinctively terrifying to the ignorant evil-doer, and Rose 
had not yet learned to laugh at the police. 

She turned pale and assumed a more respectful attitude. 

"What have I done? "she stammered. "What do you 
want? " 


240 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Pll tell you. I want you to answer a few questionsj 
and not ask any. If 3 ^ou do that — the chief of police 
will not trouble you again. But mind this: if you give 
me any untruthful answers,.! shall know it. "2 know 
what I am talking about; my object is to find out what 
you know.” 

She sank down upon the window seat, all her jauntiness 
gone. 

“Oh!” she said, ”1 know now: you are going to try to 
mix me up in that business ! but I tell you I don’t know 
anything about Bertha Warham. We are not friends. I 
saw in the “Herald” that she had run away though — or 
something of that sort.” 

“Oh, well you’ve made a beginning, goon. Or first tell 
me just how much you saw in the papers?” 

“I only saw one paper. I hardly ever look at the news- 
papers, and this, that I saw, was only a paragraph — that 
she was missing — disappeared or something of that 
sort. ” 

“And' it did not interest you?” 

“No, Bertha and I were off a year ago.” 

“What caused you to fall out?” 

“Well I wrote her something that she dld’nt approve 
of. She has done lots of things that / wouldn’t dare 
do, and never winked. But she couldn’t see other 
people’s actions in the same light, I guess. She broke 
off the correspondence.” 

“And you have never heard from her since?” 

"No, indeed!” 

When did 3 ^ou see her last?” 

‘Oh, more than a year ago, almost two. I invited her 
here at Upton.” 

“You were very intimate then. Did she have any 
friends, whose acquaintance she might have made away 
from home; any admirers who wrote her letters, perhaps? ” 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS 


241 


Here the girl laughed a little. 

"No, indeed. Why when we were at school we were 
both as green, but Bertha was always smarter than I. 
Admirers! Bless me! I don’t believe she ever looked 
at a man, except that. ugly Joe Larsen. Once when we 
were at school a young fellow, a clerk in a drug-store, 
and rea.! nice-looking, was struck with her. Madam Brown 
used to let us go to the postofiice twice a week, and 
the drug-store was just next door; we had to pass ii 
when we didn’t go round the longest way, you know; 
sometimes we went around." 

"I don’t doubt it. " 

"Well, this young man sent Bertha a note — a regular 
love-letter. Bertha just laughed at it, and then in a 
few days she got . another, and the fellow was ahvays 
out at the door when we came along. He knew what 
days and hours we went by, you know. When Bertha got 
the third letter she was awfully angry and she never 
opened it, but the next time we went to the office she 
put all three of the letters in her pocket, and when we 
passed the drug store there he was as usual; well, quick 
as a flash she whips out those letters, and threw them 
square in his face. He looked as if he could hide 
between the leaves of a newspaper, so flat you know — 
none of us, there were seven or eight girls, knew what 
Bert — we called her Bert at school — was going to do. 
But everybody that saw it laughed or hooted at the poor 
fellow, and we all, all but Bert, waved our hands in mock- 
ery to him, and went into the postoffice in a blaze of 
glory." 

She had quite forgotten her fright, for the moment, 
and told her little story with a relish. Stanhope was 
wise enough to believe that her mere opinion con- 
cerning the movements of such a girl, as he believed 
Bertha Warham to be or to have been, would be of little 


342 


A SLENDER CLUE 


value, and he had no wish to prolong the interview. 

He let her finish her story and then asked: 

“Have you any of Miss Warham’s pictures?” 

“No. I had two photographs, but when I got her last 
letter I flew into a rage and tore them up. It was an 
awfully mean letter.” 

“I dare say you thought so.” He had read that let- 
ter quite recently and spoke with more meaning than she 
knew. 

“Yes. Well my fits don’t last long, I wish I had kept 
them now; the big one, framed, would be. lovely on that 
bracket.” 

Stanhope shrugged his shoulders; he was losing his 
interest. “I suppose you destroyed the letters too,” he 
said carelessly, his words accompanied by that move- 
ment and tone that indicates the ending of a dialogue. 

“No. I had vented my spite on the pictures, and be- 
sides — well, to tell the truth, I never thought of it; I’m 
careless I guess. I wish now I had burned the let- 
ters and kept the pictures. But I have not got them,” 
her tone growing strenuous as if she feared that he 
would cast doubt upon this statement. "I left them — they 
are with some other things of mine, in another place.” 

“It’s of no consequence. Miss — Foster; good morn- 
ing.” 

“Well!” ejaculated the girl when he had closed the 
door behind him. “That’s a cool fellow. My, but he 
was good-looking though; and just too saucy for any- 
thing!" 

Then she added in a lower tone and with a little 
resentful gleam in her round eyes: 

“May be after all Miss Bert Warham isn’t any higher 
up in the world than Rose Hildreth.” And then with 
a rueful sigh and the corners of her mouth drooping, 
she added, “Nor any lower down than Rose Foster.” 


A BUNDLE OF LETTERS 


243 


Half an hour later she was singing an air from Girofle 
Girofla. 

At noon, sitting opposite a mustached young man, 
at a table especially arranged for two in a little restau- 
rant not far from the dark stone block, she said to her 
vis a vis: 

“Harry, who is Mr. Reynolds?" 

“Keeps a summer garden out at Bath," answered Harry 
promptly. 

“Oh, pshaw! you know I don’t mean him. Isn’t there 
a poet or author or something named Reynolds?" 

“Well, I should say so. He’s a novelist. What put 
you onto him. Rose?" 

"Oh, nothing." 

That afternoon saw Stanhope steaming toward Upton, 
and as often as his thoughts reverted to Bertha War- 
ham or Rose Hildreth he said, to himself, "I wish I could 
see Rule Carnes." 


CHAPTER XXVI 


A FLASH OF LIGHTNING 

It was late in the evening when Stanhope arrived at 
the Warham farm-house, and this time he was much 
better dressed and a better looking young man than had 
first appeared to Mr. Warham and Susan. 

It was Saturday evening, and as is usually the case in 
such villages as Upton, the strength of the masculine el- 
ement was "down town," and in the village stores, the 
barber shop, the grog shops, wisdom was to be had for 
the asking. 

Stanhope had matured his plans, so far at least as 
thev concerned Upton, and the work that he might do 
there, and he now went boldly about among the villagers, 
talking freely, and manifesting considerable interest in 
the Bertha Warham mystery. 

"I have spent a couple of hours in the village," he 
said to John Warham, when their first greeting was over, 
and they had talked for a few moments in that desul- 
tory way people sometimes use when they are each 
preoccupied, and neither quite ready or willing to ap- 
proach the subject of interest. 

"I thought it as well to make a beginning there, for 
I want to get a few points that I am more likely to glean 
from careless gossip than by direct asking." 

"How do you figure that?” asked the old man. 

"Well, when you approach a person in the character of 
an interviewer you put him on the witness stand, as it 
were. He’s on his guard, and apt to give wrong im- 

2U • 


A FLASH OF LIGHTNING 


245 


pressions. He’s too self-conscious, you see. If he’s 
feeling big, and likes to hear himself talk, be may say 
too much. If he has a prejudice, and lacks principle, 
he’ll color his statements. There’s a class of informa- 
tion that one can always get from public gossip, the 
more unofficial and inconsequent the better; and you’ll 
get more of it. ” 

‘Yes. Maybe so.” The old man spoke absently, wea- 
rily. He seemed to have no interest in the subject. 

Stanhope noted the languor, and the more than usual 
pallor of his face; then he looked at his watch. 

“It’s late,” he said, “and I’m a bit fagged.” 

The old man brightened a little. 

“Oh,” he said. “You’re old enough to own to being 
tired, ain’t you?” 

“Yes,” assented Stanhope, “I’m old enough for that. 
But to-morrow will be Sunday; we can talk all day if 
we can find enough to talk about. I can’t do much 
else. ” 

“Yes, that’s so, we can talk to-morrow; good night, 
young man.” 

But they did not talk on the morrow. 

An hour later, in spite of his plea of fatigue. Stanhope 
was smoking a cigar upon the front piazza, when Susan 
came out to him. 

“I’ve put a lunch in your room, again,” she said; “you 
seemed to like the other.” 

“It was more than seeming, Susan.” He took his feet 
down from the piazza-railing, and the cigar from 
between his lips. “It was genuine liking. You see I 
call you Susan; you have another name, probably, but 
I don’t know it.” 

“My other name’s Harkins,” she said in her straight- 
forward wa}^ “but Susan’s good enough for me. I — I’m 
afraid he’s got a turn for the worse.” 


246 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Mr. Warham? Oh, I hope not, although he certainly 
did look badly to-night. Has he a good doctor?” 

"Oh yes, he’s good enough. But it ain’t that. It’s 
this uncertainty that’s killing him. He’d stand any 
sort of downright bad news that wasn’t doubtful. It’s 
the suspense and the sort of — baffled feeling. It’s in 
his nature to go against it,” she paused a moment and 
looked out over the fields opposite, brown in the faint 
moonlight, then, "I wish I knew what you think — what 
you mean to do,” she said half-wistfully. 

He tossed his cigar over the railing and arcse and 
stood close beside her. He felt a genuine liking for 
this plain, practical, limited woman — so sparing of her 
speech, so kindly, and so strong within her limitation. 

"I can’t tell you precisely what I think,” he said. 
"But I am willing to give you some idea of what I shall 
try to do. I am not afraid that you can’t keep a secret.” 

"I should hope not.” There was no movement of the 
head, no touch of righteous self-assertion, such as many 
another woman would have indulged in, in her way of 
uttering these words. They were matter-of-fact, con- 
scientious, seriously spoken. 

"Oh, I’m sure that I’m safe withy^^^. ” He laughed 
softly. "I only wish there were more women like you. 
Now, CO begin fairly. I’m going to tell you where I have 
been. Or say! can you guess?” 

She lifted her head and looked at him, and in that 
dim light he could see a smile upon her face, but she 
only said: 

"Rose Hildreth?” 

"Yes. I went to see Rose Hildreth. I found a letter 
from her in Bertha’s desk and that sent me off.” 

Susan nodded intelligently. 

"Well, we won’t go into particulars; I found her home a 
boarding house of the sort they call fashionable, the 


A FLASH OF LIGHTNING 


247 


Lord only knows why; I found a female as crusty as 
brown bread and as sour as you please, and Pll just re- 
lieve my feelings to you — I don’t often find a confidante — 
and say that I detested the woman at first sight, a long 
thin sharp-faced old maid or widow.” 

“Seems as if you was trying to describe me^" broke in 
Susan dr3dy. 

“You?” She could see that he was scrutinizing her 
through the gloom, and she felt that his look was quiz- 
zical and half-mischievous. "You Susan? well perhaps 
it does — a little; but there’s a vast difference, let me 
tell you; why that woman never looked anyone square 
in the face and talked straight to the point, as you do, 
and she would see me in the last stages of starvation 
before she would serve me with doughnuts and pumpkin 
pie at midnight without hope of reward. She’s the 
only good reason I could see why Rose Hildreth should 
run away from home.” 

“Run away!” 

“Yes, Rose ran away.” He briefly told of his encoun- 
ter with Rose’s aunt and of his subsequent meeting with 
Rose herself. When he jpaused at the end of his story 
she said: 

“Well — I shouldn’t a thought it of Rose Hildreth! 
Such a pretty little thing.” 

“That’s the mischief of it,” said Stanhope sagely. 
“I’d rather be deformed and hideous than a pretty 
woman without brains. She’s just the one to go to 
destruction headlong through the first gap in the hedge, 
and it need not be a very big gap either.” 

“Oh!” ejaculated Susan. “But she’s so young! She 
might be saved.” 

“Not she! she’s as old as she ever will be; she’s 
stopped growing, brains and all! Why bless you, Susan 
— there’s nothing there worth saving." 


248 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Well,” said Susan, fetching a long breath, ‘‘I never'd 
a thought was like that.” 

"Like what?” 

"So sort of hard. It sounds like Bertha when she 
used to get to going on about — such girls.” 

"Ye^ I believe she did hold such opinions — judging 
from her letters — at any rate she thought she did. But, 
Susan, as for my hardness let me tell you that I have 
had ample chance to learn it,” there was more pathos 
in his voice than he knew; "I grew up in a large school, 
and poverty and want, hunger and necessity were my 
teachers. I was one small and ignorant boy, fighting for 
my life with the whole world. Friends were not born 
to me; I had to make them, such as I have. I couldn’t 
well lead the life I have without learning something 
about human nature, Susan.” 

"Well,” said Susan, "may be it was best for you in 
the end, and I guess you ain’t made very bad use of what 
you’ve learned. I guess you ain’t that kind.” 

Stanhope dismissed the subject with a gesture. 

"I did not intend to talk about myself,” he said. "I 
was about to tell you what I was going to do; well it 
isn’t much. I’m going to stay in this neighborhood for 
a while and be as sociable as I can, gradually; and here 
you may be able to help; I want it to leak out that I 
am trying to investigate this affair. Understand, I don’t 
want to figure as a bona fide detective, that would be too 
much for them, but I want it to become known that I am 
a young law student with plenty of leisure, and not too 
much brains, and that I have taken it into my head to 
play detective. I have offered my services to Mr. War- 
ham, without money and without price understand, and 
Mr. Warham has humored my whim and consented to 
harbor me. How the good folks receive this informa- 
tion will depend, of course, upon how I play my part. 


A FLASH OF LIGHTNING 


249 


I shall be confidential, m3^sterious and not too clever. 
You must see, Susan, that if I can’t pick up a clue here 
there is no use in looking further away. This is the 
place for me at pjresent. Do you think that fellow Lar- 
sen will be likely to come back here?” 

“Mercy! I don’t know! Joe Larsen always was too 
much for me.” 

“You don’t like him?” 

“Umph! No.” 

“Well, Susan, after to-morrow if any one is too curi- 
ous about me you had better mention, in confidence of 
course, that I’m a young lawyer with a taste for detect- 
ive work; and you might add, by way of putting them 
at ease about me, that you don’t think I’ll set the river 
on fire.” 

“I ain’t much given to lying,” said Susan dryly, 
“but I’ll try and make ’em easy.” 

Stanhope laughed lightly and turned toward the door. 

“Well, I’m going to try that luncheon now,” he 
said. “Good night, Susan.” 

In the morning John Warham was unable to leave 
his bed; the doctor came and looked at his tongue and 
felt his pulse, told him that he had eaten something 
which had caused a slight fever and that he would be 
“all right" in a few days. 

Afterward, in the privacy of the kitchen he told Susan 
that the old man was threatened with a relapse and that 
she must look after him carefully. 

All that day Stanhope wandered about idly, listlessly, 
half-bored at first, then, as the day wore on, he 
found his way into the woods, with quiet enjoyment of 
what was, to him, a novel experience, a day alone with 
nature in her most beautiful guise. 

It was a fair summer day, bright and balmy, and he 
enjoyed the woody perfumes; sounded and measured, 


250 


A SLENDER CLUE 


and admired some of the huge trees that were John 
Warham^s pride in the bit of virgin forest which he 
called his - "natural timber;" there were thickets of 
hazel and haw, ferns and mosses, flowers with the dew 
still upon them, and lately-come,, nest-building birds 
many and blithe. He bounded across half a dozen little 
brooks, and drank at a cold clear spring. Sometimes he 
came upon sleepy cattle browsing in the young grass, or 
lying under the hazel brush; and afar off he heard the 
pleasant monotonous sound of the Upton church bells. 

He found himself hurrying back to the farm house, 
and arriving late at Susan’s "two-o’clock Sunday din- 
ner," after having more than half-lost himself in the 
woods. And after dinner he hastened back to their 
quiet shade. 

With evening came a light rain, and after a plentiful 
luncheon — Susan called it a "cold bite," and explained 
that it was their substitute for "supper," on Sunday 
nights — he went to his room to smoke a cigar by the 
open window and to think about the morrow. 

He had conversed a little with John Warham before 
luncheon, or rather he had talked and the sick old man 
had listened and he had told him his plan very much 
as he had told it to Susan. 

It pleased the old man. He pronounced it practical 
and sensible, and promised to play his part. 

Stanhope had smoked one cigar and lighted another 
when drowsiness overtook him and he nodded, and then 
fell asleep in his chair. 

Suddenly a loud crash awoke him, a peal of thunder, 
short and sharp, the presage of a sudden downfall of 
rain. At the moment when he opened his eyes a vivid 
flash illuminated the landscape without, and Stanhope, 
with his face turned toward the window, saw a man 
coming toward the house from the direction of the woods. 


A FLASH OF LIGHTNING 


251 


He was awake instantly, and his first thought was 
“How long have 1 slept.” Then somehow, the possible 
lateness of the hour seemed to connect itself with this 
man, who was approaching. That he was not coming 
from the direction of the highway, and that he appeared 
a person who ignored the weather and moved with a fixed 
purpose, he had recognized in that one awakening 
glance. 

He drew out his watch, now fully awakened and 
holding it before him leaned outward so that his eyes 
with one look might note the time and the scene with- 
out, and then he awaited the next flash; it came soon, 
and showed him the hour, nearly midnight. It showed 
him also the figure of the man, approaching as before 
steadily, straight toward the house, like one who 
knew his ground. 

For half an hour the rain fell in drenching showers; 
again and again the thunder roared and rumbled, and 
the lightning played fitfully, and every lurid gleam 
showed him the figure of the man walking up and down 
upon that portion of the lawn that lay just below the 
windows of Bertha Warham’s deserted rooms. 

In one of the intervals of darkness. Stanhope had 
softly closed his shutters, and from behind them, 
through the half-turned slats, he watched the move- 
ments of the man below. 

He could see that with every flash of light the head 
was lifted, the face turned toward Bertha’s closed and 
shuttered windows; but that face was shaded, almost 
concealed by the dark felt hat that was drawn down 
over it. Occasionally the arms moved with strange 
nervous gestures, and he could even see the convulsive 
workings of the lifted hands, while the feet kept up an 
incessant promenade to and fro, to and fro, beneath the 
sheltering trees. 


252 


^ SLENDER CLUE 


When the half-hour had nearly expired and the thun- 
der began to muffle itself and sound from afar, a noise 
from below-stairs caused the detective to start up with a 
new thought. 

He opened his door softly, went out into the dark hall 
and leaned over the stair rail. Yes, there was a light 
below. Susan was stirring; perhaps the storm had 
awakened the master of the house ; or, if not asleep, 
made him more restless. 

With a swift noiseless step, sure and easy from fre- 
quent practice, he descended the stairs and approached 
the dining-room door which stood open. 

“Susan !” 

It was the merest whisper, but her ear was quick; 
she heard and came on tiptoe to the door. 

He placed his finger upon his lip and signaled for 
her to follow. 

At the foot of the stairs he turned, and, as she ap- 
proached, placed a hand upon her sleeve. 

“Come upstairs," he whispered. “No light. There 
is a man out on the lawn; you can see him from my 
windows. I don't think much of his actions. Come 
up and see if you know him." 

He placed a hand upon the railing and hurried up 
the stairs, and Susan in the same manner and with just 
as light a foot followed him. 

She hesitated for a moment at the door, and then 
guided by a flash of light, crossed the room and stood 
beside him at the window, her face close to the blinds. 

The storm was almost over; the shower was now a 
soft sprinkle; the lightning played at longer intervals 
and in less blinding flashes. 

They waited some moments for another illumination, 
and when it came, both saw him distinctly. He stood 
facing the window of Bertha Warham's boudoir , his face 


A FLASH OF LIGHTNING 


253 


and his arms upraised; when the next flash came, he lay 
prone upon the earth face downward. 

Susan caught her breath and drew back from the 
window 

“It^s Joe Larsen," she said. "We must go down." 
And then as they softly went down the stairs, she whis- 
pered: 

"Do you think he^s struck?" 

"I think not, Susan; but look here — if that is Joe 
Larsen, we must get him in and keep him here until 
I can make his acquaintance; you must manage your 
part. Can 370U? You know what to say about me." 

“Pll do my best," said Susan grimly, the while she 
was softly unlocking the front door. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


HUNTER AND HUNTED 

Susan Harkins was a woman of nerve, and leaving 
Stanhope to follow around the house and across the wet 
lawn as best he could, she made her way straight to the 
dark figure upon the ground ai;d bent’ over it. 

"Joe! Joe Larsen.” 

He started slightly, half-lifted his head, then let it fall 
again; the movement was full of a dogged desperation, 
and Stanhope, who was near enough to see it by the help 
of a feeble flash of lightning, started slightly and then 
pressed forward, feeling, without knowing why, a grow- 
ing excitement within him. 

But Susan put out a hand and gave him a warning 
touch. 

"Go into the house,” she said in a tone of natural au- 
thority, "and fetch out a lantern. There’s one on the 
kitchien table. ” 

Perhaps Susan had anticipated the effects of these 
words. Again the prostrate head was lifted, and, at the 
same moment, in obedience to another and more forcible 
touch. Stanhope moved toward the house, wondering a 
little at himself. 

Joe Larsen lifted himself upon his elbows and then 
to a sitting posture. 

"Get up, can’t you?” said Susan, laying hold of his 
coat-sleeve. "My, how wet! What on earth is the 
"matter, Joe? was ye struck 

254 



STANHOPF, PAT'^FF ^FF LANTFPN A LOFT.-Slender Clue, p. 255. 





HUNTER AND HUNTED 


255 


He shuddered, and got uoon his feet, slowly, and 
with apparent effort. 

"Yes,” he said hoarsely. "I — I guess I must have been 
^ stunned. ” 

Her hand, firm, and with a strong detaining grasp, was 
still upon his arm, and she knew that he was trembling 
throughout his entire frame. 

"Come into the house,” she said in a milder tone. 
"You*ll be the death of yourself yet, Joe Larsen! But I’m 
glad you’ve come. He ain’t so well, and I guess he kind 
of wants to see you.” 

"Who — old Warham?” 

"Yes, why don’t you come along? you act as if you’d 
done something you was ashamed of. Do you want me 
to catch 7ny death too, out here?” 

She felt him start, and seem to gather himself 
together, as they moved toward the house; at that mo- 
ment a gleam of light appeared at the corner. 

"You can go back with that lantern,” called Susan fret- 
fully. "There ain’t no need of our all bein’ drowned! 
were cornin’ in.” 

Stanhope went back to the kitchen, a grin of delight 
upon his face. He was beginning to appreciate Susan, 

When they came into the kitchen where the stove that 
had cooked their late Sunday dinner v/as still sending 
out a little warmth. Stanhope raised the lantern aloft^ 
and coming forward, let its light fall full upon Larsen’s 
face, and the same light shining through the opposite 
side of the lantern enabled Susan to see his own. 

What Stanhope saw was a haggard countenance with 
lips drawn and colorless, and hollow, burning, wotul, 
wolfish eyes. 

What Susan and Larsen saw was a very sleepy-looking 
young man, standing awkwardly and seeming abstracted 
and irresolute. 


256 


A SLENDER CLUB 


It was Larsen who spoke first, startled at sight of 
a strange face, where he had looked to see only John 
Warham’s “hired man," and his voice was hollow and 
unsteady. 

'What — who the devil are you? Take that thing out 
of my eyes!” 

A moment Stanhope stared with seeming stupidity, 
then his half-closed eyes wandered to Susan^s face and 
the arm that held the lantern dropped to his side. 

“I — excuse me," he drawled, and voice and accent 
were so changed that Susan was startled and could hardly 
believe her ears. “I — I didn’t think what I was doing; 
I was a — preoccupied. I think the old gentleman has 
been calling, madam." 

Susan crossed the room and turned up the wick of the 
lamp burning dimly upon the kitchen dresser, and then 
caught a big time-worn Boston rocker by the back and 
propelled it forcibly toward the stove, turning as she 
placed it beside the hearth, so that, for a moment, she 
gave Stanhope the full benefit of her glance. 

“I guess you' d better go and see to him," she said 
tartly; “he seems to think you’re about right. P ve got 
to look after this drowned rat first thing / do." 

Stanhope put down the lantern hastily, making two or 
three awkward and unnecessary movements in so doing, 
after the manner of a well-disposed but undecided per- 
son who finds himself in an unexpected position. 

“Certainly," he stammered, “with pleasure — I mean of 
course, anything that I can do, you know," and he 
backed himself into the doorway and so made an awk- 
ward exit. 

“Sit down there," said Susan, briskly letting go of the 
chair, and making an attack upon the stove. “ITl have 
a good fire in a minute, and git you some dry clothes.” 


HUNTER AND HUNTED 


257 


Larsen sank into the chair, but kept his eyes turned 
toward the door while he asked: 

“Who’s that — fellow?’’ 

Susan gave the fire a parting poke, and went to the 
dresser and took down the lamp, flashing its light across 
his face as she carried it to the kitchen table and set it 
down. 

"My,” she said, “how ghastly you do look, as if you’d 
seen a ghost, or had a turn. Well, lightning never 
strikes twice in the same place they say, so tain’t noways 
likely you’ll ever be killed by lightning noWj" and then 
she added mentally as a sop to her , inner consciousness, 
“More than likely you’ll live to be hung though!” Then 
again aloud: “Who’s that fellow? Why he’s a sort of a 
half-breed I guess, lives over to Coopertown or some- 
where about there — I most forget the place. He’s heard 
about Bertha, and he’s got a hankerin’ to play detective; 
says he’s a law student but thinks he’s got a kind of 
taler^ for detective work. It’s my opinion if he can’t git 
around any livelier’ n he did when he lit this lantern, he 
won’t hurt nobody with his talent.” 

She was talking to gain time, for she felt sure that 
Stanhope wished her to remain with Larsen until he 
could relieve her, and she now began to fumble with the 
lantern. 

“Drat the fellow! ” she muttered, “whatever has he 
done to it!” Then seeming to succeed at last she opened 
it, and blew out the light, turning as she shut down the 
globe with a snap, and looking toward the door, 
througtw which Stanhope had gone. She had purposely 
seated Larsen with his back toward it. 

“He seems to a-sort of got on the right side of 
John,” went on Susan in a tone of disapproval. “He’s 
offered to ‘work up the case,’ whatever he means by that, 


258 


A SLENDER CLUE 


for nothing — just for practice. It’s my opinion it’ll take 
a good deal of practice before he’ll find Bertha Warham, 
though I don’t believe in such proceedings. Get a 
real bony fidey detective — that’s what I say. ” 

Here she paused behind Larsen’s chair, and cast an in- 
quiring look at Stanhope, who, for several moments, 
had stood in the shadow of the door. It was in obe- 
dience to a gesture from him that she next spoke. “Oh, 
here he comes,’’ a little under her breath then louder 
as if to reassert herself. 

“Well, young man, what was the trouble?’’ 

Stanhope crossed the room and stood over the stove, 
rubbing his palms softly together. 

“Oh!’’ he said slowly, “only a — a little restless, that’s 
all; I think he’s getting feverish. Miss — a Miss ’’ 

“Miss Harkins,’’ said Susan emphatically; “well. I’ll 
give him his medicine in a minute. I’ve got to find some 
dry clothes first.’’ 

She took a second lamp from a shelf in the chimney 
corner, and while she lighted it. Stanhope looked down 
upon the man cowering in the Boston rocker, and asked 
suavely: 

“How do you feel now, Mr. — a — ” 

“Mr. Larsen,’’ broke in Susan. “Joe, this young man 
says his name is Brown, and may be it is; you needn’t 
believe it if you don’t want to, though.’’ 

And with this master-stroke she caught up the lamp 
and left the room. 

The improbable Mr. Brown laughed softly, as if more 
at his ease in her absence, and thrusting his hands deep 
into his trouser’s pockets he raised himself upon his 
tiptoes and then slowly let himself down again, jing- 
ling some keys the while. 

“The old lady don’t seem to take a liking to me,” he 
s^id confidentially. “There seems to be a good deal of 


HUNTER AND HUNTED 


259 


snap about her,” and he laughed broadly, and beamed 
upon Larsen, as if perfectly willing to let him into the 
j oke. 

But Larsen was in no mood for humor; he was mak- 
ing a desperate effort to pull himself together, and he had 
in part succeeded, before he said: 

“She^s sharp enough if you mean that, and she don’t 
like 77te either; she’s an old cat.” 

He sfiivered in his wet clothing and bent his eyes 
glaringly upon the fire. 

“Let me help you off with that coat Mr. — a — Mr. — ” 

“Larsen.” 

“Mr. — a— Larsen. Larsen why, why your the Mr. Lar- 
sen who — excuse me. I — I’m very glad to meet you 
— the fact is I — ” 

“Yes, I know!” Larsen arose and began tugging at a 
wet sleeve. “You’re a — detective.” 

“No, sir — no — not quite that,” taking hold of the coat 
and drawing it off his shoulder. “Not quite that, not 
that I wouldn’t like to be— a good detective, you know 
I’m just an amatuer, sir; but I do flatter myself that I 
have some little ability, some little. This sort of thing 
is very fascinating to me, Mr. Larsen, and I have a 
theory that a thing that attracts you, and fascinates you 
is the thing to take to.” 

“If you can get your hands on it,” said Larsen grimly, 
shrugging himself out of the wet coat. 

“Exactly! ” said the amateur detective quite cheer- 
fully; “exactly so sir.” 

Larsen favored him with a scowl fi^m under his black 
brows, and began to tug at his wet boots; he was still 
working with the second boot when Susan re-entered 
with an armful of clothing. 

“Now, Joe,” she said briskly, “just you step in here. 


2C0 


A SLENDER CLUE 


and get into these dry things. It’s been open all day and 
you won’t get chilled.” 

The room indicated was a small one opening off the 
kitchen, having but one window, and no door, except 
that which opened kitchenward. It had been originally 
intended for a pantry or store room, but Susan, who had 
no fancy for sharing the family sitting-room, and the 
society of Mrs. John Warham, had appropriated it to 
her own use, as being “big enough for one,” and over- 
looking her domain, the kitchen. She had her sewing- 
machine there, and there read her weekly paper on 
such Sunday afternoons as she did not spend in visit- 
ing some of her. country neighbors, or being visited by 
them. 

Susan threw open the* door of her sanctum, carried the 
clothing within, returned for the lamp which she had 
put down in order to open the door, .and when she had 
placed that upon a small table, called out: 

“Come, Joe, you want to move quick or else you’ll get 
a chill. ” 

She stepped outside then, and, when Larsen had 
passed within, drew the door tight shut, and looked 
across the room at Stanhope, who was taking from his 
pocket a small note-book and pencil. 

From the book he drew a card, and standing where 
his movements could not be too quickly seen were the 
door of the sanctum to open suddenly, he wrote a few 
words in bold black characters, then he held up the 
card and laid it upon the table with a noiseless gesture. 

She understood^him, crossed the room swiftly, took up 
the card and went out, to read it by the light of a can- 
dle burning upon a table near the open door of John 
Warham’s bedroom. 

The card contained these words: 

“Manage that I shall sit up the rest of the night. 


HUNTER AND HUNTED 


261 


Say you are worn out and that Mr. W needs a 

watcher. Don^t let Larsen go' near him.” 

When Larsen came out from the sanctum, his step was 
firmer, and his manner quite collected. A desperate calm 
seemed to have settled upon his face, but his eyes 
smoldered in their dark caverns, and a dumb devil had 
perched upon his tongue. 

He came to the fire, and seated himself in the rocker, 
leaning forward with his elbows upon his knees, and 
taking up the poker from the hearth, to shift it idly 
from hand to hand, while he looked keenly across the 
stove at Stanhope, who stood beside it, hands in pockets 
and tilting himself up and down from toe to heel, as at 
first. He seemed struggling to keep himself awake, aj^d 
finally drew forth his right hand to press it against his 
mouth as if to stifle a yawn. 

He made no attempt at conversation and Susan found 
them thus when, in a few moments, she came quietly in. 

‘‘I can’t think where on earth you’ve hailed from, Joe 
Larsen,” she said crisply, “but I guess you won’t be above 
eatin’ a bite if it’s set before you. I ain’t in no mood 
for askin’ questions to-night, so I ain’t a-going to bid 
you give an account of yourself. I guess, may be your 
coming just now’s kind a-lucky, though; and ma}^ be 
this young man can get some ideas from you.” She was 
moving about the kitchen as she talked, setting the 
coffee-pot on the stove, and putting dishes and glasses 
upon the kitchen-table. Suddenly, she stopped before 
Stanhope and seemed to hesitate. 

“Young man,” she said, at last, “you offered your 
services free enough a while ago; I hoped I wouldn’t 
need them. But I am tireder than I knew. If you’re 
really willing to set up the balance of the night, you can 
have my chance. ” 

Stanhope seemed to make an amiable effort to rouse 


2G2 


A SLENDER CLUE 


himself. "Certainly," he said, "by all means. Pm not a 
bad nurse either, Miss Harkins." 

"Well there won’t be much nursing needed; you can 
set here in the kitchen, if you want to — I ’ll set out 
enough lunch for two, and you can kind o rouse him up 
and give him his medicine every two hours, but mind 
you don’t let him talk, or try to talk to him. The doc- 
tor won’t have it. Joe, you must not go near him yet 
— mind, it won’t do to excite him." 

She resumed her work of putting food upon the 
kitchen table, going to and from pantry to table, 
swiftly and noiselessly. 

When all was done, she approached the hearth and 
^id to Larsen: 

"1 have put this young man into the corner room, Joe; 
and so you’ll have to take Mrs. Warham’s for to-night, 
the others ain’t in order.” 

Larsen had ceased to trifle with the poker, and was sit- 
ting with his head in his two hands, when she addressed 
him. 

He started and uttered a sharp exclamation, lifted 
his head and dropped it again upon his hands. 

*T don’t want to sleep," he said, with his face thus 
concealed — I — I haven’t got over that shock. I’ll stay 
here.” 

"Well, you can do as you like," said Susan. "The 
room’s ready, and a candle in it.” She turned toward 
Stanhope, gave him some brief directions about the 
medicine, and then went her way, leaving the two men, 
hunter and hunted, face to face at midnight, in her 
cheery kitchen. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


SKILL VERSUS MUSCLE 

When Susan had gone, Stanhope drew a chair up to 
the stove, and seated himself. It was an old-fashioned, 
splint-bottomed chair, with high, straight back, and 
broad arms — one of the few relics rescued by Susan, from 
the hands of the innovators. 

It was comfortable enough, for a healthy young per- 
son, with naturally erect spinal column, and the young 
man, who called himself Brown, leaned his head against 
its back, rested his hands and elbows upon its arms, and 
looked through half-closed eyes at his "vis a vis." 

For some time Larsen sat with his face hidden in his 
hands, then he arose and without once glancing at 
Stanhope, took the coffee-pot from the stove, and going 
to the table, poured for himself a brimming cup, strong 
and black. Then, like a man who has just discovered an 
appetite, he seated himself and began to eat rapidly, 
ravenously; he ate so long, and so much, that Stanhope 
grew interested in watching his performance, and he 
drank three cups of the black coffee, strong and hot, and 
undiluted with cream or sugar. 

When he had finished, he brushed some crumbs from 
his knees, ran his long brown hand across his smooth 
heavy jaw, and arose and stood before Stanhope with 
his back to the fire. 

“Well, I’ve made a meal,” he said finally. 

“Yes. I have observed it.” 


20)3 


2C4 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"You have," grimly, "what do you think of my appe. 
tite?” 

"Very good, I should say, for a man of your size." 

"My size! Yes," stretching himself to his full height 
and reaching out his brawny arms, too long for the 
sleeves that did not adorn them. "What do you think 
of my size anyhow?" 

"Very good, I should say." Stanhope, seemed to be 
struggling with a yawn. "Quite well grown, in fact.” 

Larsen let his arms drop to his sides, and stood for 
some moments glowering down at him. "Get up," he 
said finally. "Let’s look at you." 

Stanhope lifted one knee gently, and gently crossed it 
over the other. 

"Excuse me, please," he said serenely. "I shouldn't 
show to advantage. You’re a bigger man than I am.” 
Then he lowered the knee again with deliberation, as 
though the exercise required extreme care. 

"Upon consideration, ” he said, "I think I will get up," 
and he arose slowly and stood directly before Larsen. 

For a moment neither spoke, then Stanhope said 
quietly: 

"It’s surprising how much one can see at a glance, in 
a flash, in fact. Now when I first saw you coming from 
the woods toward the house, I realized your bigness; 
took it all in at one wink, as it were, and when I saw you 
raise your arms, very much as you did just now, only 
perhaps with more energy, and, well, say abandon, all this 
by a second flash, I realized your bigness yet more. 
When I saw yoM fall ," — his eyes seemed taking in Lar- 
sen’s whole face, and the change in his tone struck upon 
the senses of the other as if he had shut his hand upon 
a kitten’s fur, and found it suddenly turned to. stinging 
nettles in his grasp — "when 1 saw you fall, I realized 
your zveakness." 


SKILL VERSUS MUSCLE 


263 


"What do you mean?" gasped Larsen with a fierce oath. 
"I was stunned by the lightning.” 

"Oh no, you were not, not by that stroke, the lightning 
that struck you was inside you, my friend. " 

Larsen was pallid with rage, his eyes were blazing. 

"What do you mean!” he hissed. "I advise you to 
watch that tongue of yours, sir." 

"And I advise you not to try to intimidate a man, 
simply because you are a size bigger; it won’t always 
work. I mean what I say. I saw your maneuvers from 
the window above, where I was sitting. I saw you fall — 
and I called Susan. Now if you want more conversation 
with me Mr. Larsen, talk respectfully. I’m not your 
enemy, at this present moment; I’m eyen disposed to 
be your friend if you need one. But don’t bluster, it 
irritates me.” 

He sat down as he uttered these last words and 
resumed his former listless position. 

Larsen’s wrath seemed cooling. "Well!” he said slow- 
ly, "you are a cool one — I don’t believe you’re such a 
fool as Susan takes you for." 

"Does Susan take me for a fool? Well I can’t resent 
that, we are hardly acquainted as yet. I hope I’m not a 
fool — and I hope you’re not.” 

He drew a cigar-case from his pocket and carefully 
selected a cigar. 

"I was smoking when you made your appearance out 
there. You rather interrupted me, perhaps you’ll have 
a cigar, and if you’ll sit down and stop staring at me 
I’ll be obliged.” 

Larson sat down upon the kitchen chair which he had 
lately occupied— rather, he took it by the back, swung it 
in front of him and bestrode it, crossing his arms upon 
its back and looking over them at his cool companion; 
but he took no notice of the proffered cigar case. 


266 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“You^re the coolest fellow / ever saw," he growled 
resentfully. "I wish /could keep as cool." 

Stanhope put away the cigar case, lighted a cigar and 
bent forward to throw the. charred match upon the 
hearth, brushing Larsen^s shoulder as he did so, then he 
shut his lips upon his weed, and drev/ upon it until a 
bright fire glowed at the end. 

"You can’t," he said then; “it isn’t in you. I should 
think you’d be apt to get into trouble frequently with 
that devil of a temper, and your lack of self-control. I 
tell you that a man without self-control is a poor fel- 
low, even if he’s as big as you." 

"Perhaps I don’t lack that as much as you think," 
said Larsen slowly. 

"Oh yes, you do. You can keep your mouth shut, but 
you can’t keep it sh'//; your lips will twitch, your facial 
muscles be all a-quiver; why, you can’t even keep your 
hands still!" 

Larsen looked down at his clinched hands, and bit his 
lips. "If you are trying my temper,” he said, "you are 
in a fair way to get a sample of it." 

"Bah!" said Stanhope closing his eyes. "Don’t threat- 
en me." 

Larsen sprang up with an unmistakable gesture of rage, 
and for a moment stood glowering over Stanhope, who 
with his head tilted back, his hands resting lightly upon 
either arm of the big chair and his knees crossed, 
smoked calmly on; then he turned and began to pace up 
and down the kitchen. 

"I think," murmured Stanhope after a time, "that you 
would better close that door, and then if you should hap- 
pen to say anything it won’t wake the sleepers. I have 
observed that your voice is not particularly melodious, 
and that you modulate it with difficulty." 

A little to his surprise Larsen crossed the room, 


SKILL VERSUS MUSCLE 


267 


closed the door, and came back and stood again before 
him. 

“Susan says you're trying to work up this case of — of 
disappearance,” he said. 

“Susan did not utter a falsehood.” 

“Umph! and you're playing yourself for a lawyer fel- 
low from some country town — a raw hand.” 

“That's what I'm myself for.”' 

“Do you suppose I believe that?" 

“Believe what?" 

“That you’re a green one. Not in the regular business.” 

“My dear sir^ I am delighted! You do not consider me 
^green' then. Thank you, and let me assure you that 
I'm not green; in my own estimation I'm a very much 
ripened young man, for my years.” 

"Oh — well you've got a good opinion of yourself. 
How long have you been here?” 

Stanhope looked at his watch and seemed to be mak- 
ing a nice mental calculation. 

"Let me see, something over thi;ty-five hours I should 
say." He did not seem to remember that this time in- 
cluded only his latest visit. 

“Ugh! well what have you found out?” 

“Several things. I’ve found out for one thing that you 
were somewhat interested in — this missing young lady.” 

Larsen winced, and bit his under lip. 

"And I've also found out that there are people in the 
neighborhood who don't hesitate to think and say that 
you know more about this disappearance than you choose 
to tell.” 

Larsen swung round upon his heel and took a restless 
turn across the room. 

“Well — what else do they say?” he demanded, coming 
back to his old position. “And who are they that say 

t. 


2C8 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Perhaps Pll furnish you with a list of them some day, 
but not at present. They say that you were not visible 
in this neighborhood when Bertha Warham vanished, 
but that you came back in a few days, and was not quite 
yourself. " 

"They do! Curse them! Not quite myself wasn’t I? How 
could I be? everybody in this county knows that I 
worshiped that girl’s shadow, yes — and they laughed at 
it. ” 

Stanhope, who was deliberately goading him on, hoping 
to drive him beyond the bounds of prudence and so 
wring from him some word or words, that would furnish 
him with a little much-needed light,' now laughed 
lightly. 

"Yes, but the}^ say that it was that very shadow that 
was troubling you. That her death lies at your door." 

"Her death?” the laugh had thrown him off his guard; 
"Bertha’s death!” He clutched his hands together and 
wrung them fiercely. "I’d give a fortune — Pd give my 
life to know that she was dead, to see her this moment 
lying dead before me. But she’s not dead, curse her! 
she’s alive, and I’ll find her yet, if I have to hunt a life- 
time!” 

Stanhope had accomplished his purpose. Before the 
passion-goaded man could recover himself, a firm hand 
clutched* his collar, he was twisted about like a child in 
the grasp of a giant, and literally dropped into the chair 
which the wily detective had just vacated with a bound. 
All trace of languor and cool indifference was gone. Heat 
and light, force and fire shone upon Larsen from the face 
of the young man now standing over him. Yes, and a 
strong menace too. 

"So I have landed you at last, Mr. Larsen," said Stan- 
hope in a cold, hard, resol Lite tone that was yet scarcely 
above a whisper. "I thought I should do it. Now, listen 


SKILL VERSUS MUSCLE 


to me, before you leave that chair you will tell me what 
part you have played in this affair, or you’ll go straight 
from this kitchen to the Upton jail, accused of Bertha 
Warham’s murder." 

"Who’ll take me therq?" hissed Larsen, frothing at 
the lips. 

"I will, and I’ll do it single-handed! Oh, you needn’t 
writhe and grimace; I know your fingers itch, but you 
hadn’t better overestimate your brute strength. You are 
unarmed, and I don’t want to draw a weapon upon you, 
but you’re at my mercy. If you don’t believe it — ” 

With the snarl of a fierce animal ensnared, Larsen 
sprang from the chair, and rushed upon him with brawny 
fist upraised, then came the sound of a stinging blow 
and he fell heavily. 

Stanhope had moved lightly aside, caught the uplifted 
arm and delivered a "left-hander” which made him victor 
in that round at least. 

Wliefi Susan, startled and alarmed by the heavy thud 
of Larsen’s big body upon her kitchen floor, came hurry- 
ing into the room candle in hand, she found Stanhope 
upon one knee beside the prostrate man, who had just 
opened his eyes and was gazing with a bewildered look 
straight into the face bent above him. 

“What is it?" asked Susan breathlessly. *'I thought — 
I was afraid—" then she stopped, her eyes encountering 
Stanhope’s meaning smile. 

"Its another stroke of lightning. Miss Susan. He’s 
all right I guess. Do you feel .like getting up, Larsen? 
He looked to see returning anger in his assailant’s face, 
but the puzzled look only deepened as Larsen raised 
himself upon one elbow, and then with a lift from Stan- 
hope, came slowly to his feet. 

"Sit down," said the detective pushing the splint-bot- 
tomed chair toward him. "You’ll be all right presently," 


270 


A SLENDER CLUE ' 


and Larsen knew that Stanhope, for the time at least, 
would spare him. He knew too, in the same moment, 
that Susan’s solicitude had been not for himself but for 
the young detective. 

He sat weakly down in the t^ig chair, and looked from 
one to the other with a stare so meaningless, a face so 
worn, and dull, and woful, that Stanhope felt a thrill 
of compunction and pity not unmixed with surprise. 

He had looked for an outburst of rage, sullen fury, or 
silent menacing resentment, and was quite prepared for 
either, but the man’s dull apathy was unaccountable. 

At the back of the large kitchen, in the corner remotest 
from the stove, and the doors of pantry and store-rooms, 
was a large old-fashioned couch, Susan called it a “set- 
tee", and to this Stanhope pointed as he said to the 
spinster: 

“Can’t you make him some sort of comfortable bed 
there. Miss Susan? He’s in need of rest and sleep, I 
should say; a stroke of lightning and a drenching — not 
to mention this last fall — i^ enough to unsettle any man.” 

When Susan went out to fetch blankets and pillows, he 
said quietly to Larsen: 

“Something worse than my blow has unhinged you, my 
friend! of course we understand that. I don’t want to be 
hard upon you; I’ll be fair, if you will; lie down there 
and rest; we can talk to morrow. " 

The black eyes stared vacantly at him, and the pale 
lips twitched, but no sound came from them. When 
Susan came back, he watched her movements listlessly, 
and when the couch was spread he threw himself upon 
it heavily, and lying prone upon his back with his arms 
above his head, stared with open but unseeing eyes 
straight at the ceiling. 

For more than an hour he lay thus moveless and wide- 
eyed, as weak as a child. A long physical and mental 


SKILL VERSUS MUSCLE 


271 


strain had reached its climax in his fierce attack upon 
Stanhope, and his bodily strength was gone, but a stub- 
born will, stronger even than that great sinewy body, 
was still urging him to mental activity; he had a diffi- 
cult problem to grapple with, and his brain would not 
cease its efforts. 

During a long hour Stanhope yawned more than once 
but he forbore to speak. He poured for himself a cup 
of coffee and drank it leisurely, smoked a cigar, made a 
few entries in his note-book, and looked at his watch, at 
intervals. 

Finally, when more than an hour had passed, Larsen 
lifted his arms and turned upon his side, with his face 
toward Stanhope. 

“I have been thinking,” he said, in a strange hollow 
voice, “and after I rest, in the morning, I want to talk 
with you — before you say anything about — about this 
business or me, to anyone,” there was something almost 
appealing in his tone. 

“All right, Larsen,” responded Stanhope cheerfully; “I 
think we can manage to understand each other, in the 
morning.” 

Even as he spoke, Larsen^ s eyes began to close; he 
rolled heavily over, and lying face downward, seemed 
composing himself for sleep. In a few moments he was 
breathing heavily, his long guttural respirations accom- 
panied by the nervous twitches and starts of the worn-out 
sleeper. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


A STRANGE CONFESSION 

During the remainder of the night, or to be exact, dur* 
ing the early morning hours, Joseph Larsen slept heavily, 
while Stanhope watched and yawned. A little before 
daylight, when the latter crossed the sitting-room to 
give the sick man his medicine, according to Susan’s in- 
structions, he found him lying wide awake and seemingly 
quite at ease and free from fever symptoms. 

“Did Susan say that Joe Larsen was here?’’ he asked 
feebly, “or did I dream it?" 

“Larsen is here," said the detective quietly. 

“Oh, well, take my advice and keep your eye on him." 

“I mean to." 

“He’s a big brawny fellow, young man.” 

“Yes, he tried to impress that upon me a little while 
ago. 

“Did he? Confound his impudence ! Tell me about it." 

“Not to-night, Mr. Warham. Its contrary to my orders 
from Miss Susan, and I’m a good deal more afraid of her 
than I am of Larsen." 

“LJmph! well, look out. Joe’s tricky." 

“Yes. He tried one of his tricks on me, and I knocked 
him down. Brute force don’t always win in this country, 
Mr. Warham. Now don’t ask any more questions. Leave- 
Larsen to me. 

The old man gulped down his medicine and grinned 
with delight. • 

“You knocked him down did you? by — ! knocked joe 

373 


A STRANGE CONFESSION 


273 


Larseh down! well I can sleep on that! I shouldn’t won- 
der if it cured me; you — knocked him down! well! keep 
him out of my sight, youngster; I don’t want to see him 
— not yet." 

When Larsen awoke it was plain that he was prac- 
ticing self-control — repressing himself. He sat at the 
breakfast table opposite Stanhope, looking very haggard 
and dejected, only speaking when he was addressed, but 
answering then quite calmly, although in fe.w and brief 
syllables. 

Shortly before sunrise, Susan had reappeared in the 
kitchen and driven Stanhope from the field, telling him 
that he could have just two hour’s sleep, before break- 
fast time, and promising to cell him should Larsen show 
signs of waking. 

"But he won’t,” she had said; "w^hen a man sleeps like 
that he generally has to be waked up." 

And so it proved; Stanhope came downstairs without 
waiting to be called, but Larsen slept on until Susan 
wakened him. 

After breakfast Larsen arose from the table, and 
looking down at Stanhope, who still held his coffee cup, 
said with an air of dogged resolution: 

"I want to have a talk with you; where shall it be?" 

"It had better be upstairs,” broke in Susan. "You’re 
liable to be interrupted out on the stoop, or in the door- 
5mrd. Besides John might happen to hear ye down here; 
he’s wide awake this mornin’. The sleepin’ stuff’s all out 
of his head. You’ d better go up to your room, young man. " 

"You are right. Miss Susan,” said Stanhope, "I believe 
you are always right. Upstairs it is, Mr. Larsen." 

It was a light cheery chamber, and Larsen as he en- 
tered looked about him with the air of a man familiar 
with his surroundings, yet, somehow, startled or 
strange. 


374 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Oh!” he said with a queer husky intonation. "This 
room is it? The first time I ever saw this room I was — ” 

He checked himself, and sat suddenly down in an arm- 
chair by the window. 

"Go on,” said Stanhope, bringing forward a second 
chair, and seating himself opposite, and quite near. 
"The first time you saw this room, what happened? Say 
your say; its what we’re here for." 

"It’s not what INn here for;" said Larsen doggedly. 
"I made up my mind before I went to sleep, that I’d 
have an understanding with you this morning; and thaf s 
what I’m here for.” 

"Oh!” said Stanhope dryly. "I thought we came to a 
sort of an understanding last night.” 

Larsen took no notice of the jibe; he was looking intently 
at the carpet, his lips tightly compressed and his hands 
locked together. He seemed to be studying his next 
word. Finally he said: 

"If you see fit to play yourself on the Upton folks for 
a green hand you can do so. But I know old John War- 
ham; if he’s harboring 3^011, and depending on 3’ou, as 
he seems to be, it’s because he’s hired 3^011 to do his work; 
and if he don’t know 3’'ou, you’ve had to come mighty well 
recommended too. If you’d have come here as you say^ 
or Susan says you did, on your own hook, and without 
any recommendations, he’d have fired you out too 
quick. ’• 

"That is your opinion,” suggested Stanhope. 

"You can call it what you like; it’s a fact.” He raised 
his big black somber eyes from the floor and fixed them 
upon Stanhope’s face. 

"I want you to talk fair with nie; ” he said. "You 
have a good opinion of yourself. I don’t know who you 
are, but if 3^ou’re a detective at all or a lawyer either, 
you’re a good one. Look at me; I suppose you think 


A STRANGE CONFESSION 


275 


you can read human nature like a book. Am I going 
to lie to you?” 

"My dear sir, whatever else I may be, I am not a 
second-sight-seer. I really can’t tell — yet.” 

“Well, will you answer a few straight questions?” 

“Ask them.” 

"Are you going to try and find Bertha Warham?” 

"Yes.” 

"And do you expect to succeed?” 

Stanhope was looking at him now straight into his 
eyes. "With your assistance,” he said slowly, "I do.” 

‘Then listen to me. If there is a man alive who can 
find that girl, that man I will follow to the ends of the 
world! I will be his dog, his slave. If any man has a 
right to know where she is, / am that man! Convince 
me that you can find her, and I am your shadow. If I 
thought you were on her track I would dog you to the 
last day of my life, or yours.” 

"Well,” said Stanhope with sphinx like calm, "/’w on 
her track. ” 

"Before I went away from Upton,” went on Larsen in 
a hoarse monotone, "I knew what people said; the fools! 
I went away to look for her, I came back because I had 
failed; and I hoped that something new might have 
been discovered here. I knew that John Warham had 
sent to the city for a detective.” 

"Did you know that before you went away?” broke 
in Stanhope quickly. 

Larsen’s lips twitched, his hands clasped and un- 
clasped themselves convulsively. 

"No matter how I knew it, or when. It was this that 
brought me here; you felt inclined to detain me by force 
last night — if you could; you did not know that I do 
not mean to let jw/ out of my sight.” 


270 


^ SLENDER CLUE 


"Really,” said Stanhope. "How fortunate that our re- 
gard is mutual.” 

"I don’t want to hamper your actions,” went on Larsen 
doggedly, "but I want you to make me a promise, and 
that is that you will not tell John Warham or anyone 
what I am about to tell you until this business is ended. 
You may act upon it in any way you like; you may put 
me under arrest if you choose. I came up here to tell you 
what I know — all that I know about — Bertha Warham.” 

He got up and walked two or three times across the 
room; his voice had broken as he spoke her name. 

"You may say what you want to say,” there was a 
touch of skeptical coldness in Stanhope’s voice. "If I 
think you are telling the truth — all the truth. I’ll be 
fair enough with you.” 

Larsen came back to the window and sat down again 
opposite Stanhope. He passed his hand once or twice 
across his face and seemed to be. composing himself by 
a strong effort. There was something almost dignified in 
his manner as he began: 

"It is not from fear or shame, that I want to keep my 
affairs from the Upton gossips. I have always done the 
same, or tried to. I don’t know how it is, or why it is, 
but the whole community has seemed to be against me 
from the first. I have never been a popular fellow, 
I’ve never made friends like other fellows of my age. 
I’ve never had the way that takes with women, young 
and old. I wasn’t born a talker. When other fellows 
could laugh and joke and pay compliments, my tongue 
was tied. I’vewstood many a time in a crowd at some 
of our little social gatherings and watched the boys 
paying court to girls that they didn’t care for, just for 
the fun of the thing, and I’ve wondered how they did 
it, while I stood back in a corner tongue-tied and awk- 
ward, feeling as if my hands and feet were all there 


A STRANGE CONFESSION 


271 


was of me, and tingling to the roots of my hair when 
the girls tried to drag me out, as they sometimes did, 
to join in their games, or to dance when partners were 
scarce. I couldn’t dance; I was too big and too awk- 
ward and I couldn’t bear to be laughed at. Sometimes 
I think that it was my silence and my awkwardness that 
first made Bertha notice me; she knew that the boys 
chaffed me, as much as they dared, and the girls openly 
made game of me. I’ve never had any too much hap- 
piness in this world; ‘stupid’, and* ‘sullen’,and ‘awkward’, 
I’ve been called these for pet names ever since I can 
remember. I was an adopted child, and the woman I 
have always called mother is the sister of — of old War- 
ham’s wife. I was taught to call her aunt, and she 
always made me welcome here. Bertha began to twist 
me around her finger when we were little children. I 
have worshiped her ever since I can remember. I 
think she used to like me, too. It was in her nature 
to befriend any forlorn, friendless creature; and, except 
for her, I was forlorn and friendless enough. I humored 
all her whims, and she had a good many; I helped her 
out of any mischief she chose to get into, and kept all 
her secrets; I’ve been punished more than once for 
something that she did. And when she pitied me and 
called me her poor old Joe, her very best friend, I was 
content. John Warham never liked me; he used to say 
rough unkind things to me when I came here, but this 
only made Bertha stand up for me, and confide in me 
the more. She grew so used to me — I was always so 
ready, and willing, and meek — that I suppose she felt 
as if she couldn’t do without me; she petted me, and 
ruled me as if I were a big Newfoundland or a slave 
that she owned body and soul. She accepted my wor- 
ship as a thing of course, and — when we became en- 
gaged — she was very young, and it seemed to come 


278 


A SLENDER CLUE 


about quite naturally — I never thought to inquire if she 
cared for me. I knew that I loved her, and that I was 
necessary to her; and that was enough." 

He paused for a moment and turned his face toward 
the window. Then he shifted his position slightly, 
drew a long shuddering breath, and resumed. 

"The change began when she went away to school for 
the first time. I knew that she was bright, and I was 
dull. I donH think she thought of that at all, herself 
— not at first, but / knew it, and although I hated books 
and study, I tried to learn for her sake. When she went 
away to school I went too, not with her of course, nor 
near her, but to an academy for boys that was recom- 
mended by — by Mrs. John Warham. But while she 
was away learning to do without me — forgetting me, I 
only thought of her more and more, I thought of noth- 
ing else." 

Again he paused, there was a strange kindling of the 
haggard face, a restlessness, as of some latent growing 
excitement, showing plainly through words and move- 
ments; evidently self-repression was becoming painful 
to him. He drew his chair away from the window and 
turned his back to the light. 

"There are some things that a man can’t talk about," 
he went on hoarsely. "Bertha had tried me in a good 
many ways, but she never made me jealous; she wasn’t 
a flirt by nature; there was always plenty of young fel- 
lows ready to pay court to her, but they didn’t under- 
stand her as I did. They didn’t know her ways and 
fall in with her whims, they thought too much of them- 
selves, and not enough of her. She liked to rule me 
and have her own way, and enjoy her day-dreams, bet- 
ter than she liked their society. She lived in a kind 
of a world of her own, and I fancy my one merit, in 
her eyes, was that I knew when to speak and when to 


A STRANGE CONFESSION 


379 


keep still. But, after she came back from school the 
first time, it was different. I knew that she was chang- 
ing, but I wouldn’t let myself believe it. I fought it off 
and I tried so hard to please her, was so meek and hum- 
ble, that she couldn’t quarrel with me, but I knew that 
it was coming — she had had a taste of power, she had 

found out that she was not a commonplace girl, and 

Upton grew too small, the farm too tame, and my idol- 
atry too monotonous and too old a story. 

"One day she brought home with her for a visit a 
town girl, one of your pink and white blonde-headed, 
laughing, twisting, silly little things, as different 
from herself as could be, and they began to ride 

and dance with the Upton fellows, and of course they 
had their pick. Rose was a born flirt, and Bertha 

liked the fun and excitement. There were two young 
men who were here almost constantly, one of them, 
the one who general 1}^ went with Bertha, was en- 
gaged to a young lady who was away from home, and 
he and Bertha seemed to have a sort of understanding. 

I couldn’t stand it, and so when I saw them driving out 
here with their buggies, or cantering up on their mus- 
tangs, I came too, and sometimes I suppose I spoiled 
their party, and upset their plans. I didn’t remon- 
strate with Bertha — I didn’t dare — and I didn’t know 
how. 

"One day, one Sunday morning, I rode over early and 
w'as sitting on the porch talking with the girls when the 
two drove up each with his buggy. I expected to see 
some disappointed faces and perhaps get some hints, 
but I had made up my mind to stand my ground. I 
was feeling sulky in the beginning; and when I saw 
how jolly they all were, and how little my sulks seemed 
to disturb them, it made me wild with rage. They all 
knew how matters stood between us, and they threw 


280 


A SLENDER CLUE 


out sly hints, that I could not take up nor resent, 
and that Bertha only laughed at. Just before dinner 
we sat out on the porch and they were all so merry, 
and so regardless of me, that I couldn’t endure it. 
I got up and went into the parlor and threw myself 
down upon the sofa. I was burning, boiling. I felt 
as if a devil had got hold of me; but it was a dumb 
devil. By and by I heard them all burst out laugh- 
ing, and then Bertha came in, the laugh still on 
her lips. She came to me and put her hand on 
my shoulder and said something in her light care- 
less way. But I couldn’t have answered her to save 
my life. She turned away from me with a little shrug, 
and sat down at the piano and sang something, a gay 
little piece that I never had heard before; she sat quite 
near me, and I got up and went and sat on the further 
side of the room, as far away as I could get. When 
she finished her song she turned and asked me if I had 
heard it before and if I liked it. I didn’t answer her; 

I didn’t dare to, for I knew that I would rave if I 
spoke at all. Then she got up and walked past me like 
a queen. T won’t insist upon your talking, Joe,’ she 
said, ‘but I think you are making a mistake.’ 

“I had taken a chair by the window and I could hear 
what they said outside; I don’t think Bertha thought I 
would hear, but perhaps she did not care. 

“’Why don’t you teach that fellow a lesson,’ Rose 
Hildreth said in her pert little tone that I hated. 

“‘Oh,’ said Bertha carelessly, ‘I don’t know how; I’m 
such a good-natured person.’ 

“Then they all laughed, and I heard young Harney say: 
‘Suppose you let me help you. Miss Bertha; I should 
think a crisis would be desirable.’ 

“‘It would,’ said Bertha. ‘But I’d like to know how 
you would manage it, when a man won’t talk—’ 


A STRANGE .CONFESSION 


281 


“‘Oh!’ cries Rose Hildreth — ‘the Lord deliver me 
from a sulking man.’ 

“‘Amen,’ I heard Bertha say. 

“‘Miss Bertha,’ says Harney, ‘suppose you and I take 
a drive after dinner?’ ‘Capital,’ says the other fellow. 
‘Good,’ says Rose. ‘But you won’t dare, will you, 
Bertha?’ she knew that would settle it, and it did. 

“At dinner Bertha sat between Susan and young Harney, 
and I was at the other end of the table. I couldn’t get 
a word with Bertha and I had made up my mind to 
speak. Just as we were leaving the table, young Harney 
spoke up, very cool and careless: ‘Miss Bertha,’ he 
says, ‘shall we go for that little drive now?’ then I 
turned around and looked at him. ‘Bertha canU go,' 
I said. He just laughed and says again, ‘How is it. Miss 
Bertha?’ 

“‘Oh,’ she says as sweet and calm as could be, ‘It’s 
just as'joe says of course.’ ^ 

“They all laughed, and the two fellows went out to the 
barn, while I, like a blind fool, followed the girls out 
to the front porch. There was very little said as we 
sat there. Rose hummed softly and fidgeted with her 
ribbons, and Bertha sat on one of the steps looking up at 
the clouds, as cool and careless as I ever saw her in my 
life. I was anything but cool. I began to* think I had 
made a fool of mySelf. By and by Rose got up and 
walked past me into the house; she came back again in 
a minute and stood in the doorway, but I couldn’t see 
her without moving, and I was too sulky to turn around. 
In a minute more I heard a buggy coming around the 
drive; it was Harney with his two bays, and Gordon, 
the other fellow was in the buggy with him; just as they 
came around the curve at the corner of. the house. Rose 
skipped out of the doorway and stood between Bertha 
and me, and I saw that she had Bertha’s hat and shawl 


282 


A SLENDER CLUE 


in her hands; at that minute the buggy stopped before 
the steps; it was all done in a flash, Gordon jumped 
out of the buggy, Rose tossed the hat and shawl to 
Bertha, and before I could move, Gordon was helping her 
in beside Harney. I jumped up then, and ran blindly 
down the steps; I almost had my hand upon the bridle; 
but Harney laid on the whip and they were off. They 
were very quiet, and Bertha did not look back, but Rose 
and Gordon laughed, and chaffed me, until I rushed 
away half -mad.” 

He paused again, fairly writhing in his chair; his lips 
twitched, and the hand that he lifted to his face was 
tremulous. Stanhope’ s own face had grown quite grave, 
but he made no comment, and sat still, , his eyes 
fixed upon his companion’s face. 

In a moment Larsen resumed his story, speaking now 
in short jerky sentences, with frequent pauses between, 
as if the words were dragge^l forth by an effort of will, 
and that effort a torture which he longed to end. 

“Rose Hildreth went home that week. I staid away 
until I knew she was gone and then I went to see 
Bertha. It was the next Sunday morning. I had been 
in torment all the week, and I went early, determined 
to humble myself, and to have it over — it was over — 
very soon. Bertha came downstairs and out upon the 
porch where I stood waiting; she didn’t waste words, 
but came and stood straight before me, looking as calm 
as could be, but just a little bit pale. She told me that she 
would have no words with me, none were needed, and 
they would do no good — she did not want to reproacli me, 
there was no need and — she supposed that I was not to 
blame for my disposition. She had seen for a longtime 
that we — we — had made a mistake — I was narrow-mind- 
ed, selfish, exacting. I had worn out her patience long 
ago, but she wanted to be just-— she had given me trial 


A STRANGE CONFESSION 


283 


after trial, and at last her patience and her respect for 
me were gone together. I had gone on nursing my sul- 
lenness, my furious temper, until they had mastered me, 
but they should not master her. She had done with 
me, and she advised me to go quietly, not to make a 
scene. She was not afraid of me, and I could not alter 
her decision. When she had said her say she went quietly 
into the house, and I staggered off into the Woods and 
stayed there all day. That was last fall — more than 
nine months ago. 

"I wrote her two or three wild letters, and several 
times, I contrived to see her, and implored and prayed; 
finally I fell into a sort of despairing stupor; I would 
go to the house almost every day and follow aunt — Mrs. 
Warham — around and look at Bertha — I didn’t try to 
talk with her often. Finally she accepted old March 
down at Upton, and I felt half-sure that she wanted to 
get away from the farm and from me. I knew she did 
not care for him. I am coming now, to the part of my 
story that you may not want to believe, and here I 
want you to make me a promise.” 

Stanhope’s eyes were looking him through and 
through. “What is it?” he said, briefly. 

‘T want you to promise not to tell what I am about to 
tell you, to John Warham, or any of his people, nor to 
any one in Upton and this vicinity. You may have to 
call in help — I think it quite likely — and you are at 
liberty to tell as many detectives as you like. But 
until you have found Bertha Warham, or failed to find 
her and given up the case, you are not to speak of this 
to any one here.” 

"What if I refuse?” queried Stanhope. 

"Then I have said my say.” 

"Well. You have my promise, and I am a man of my 
word,” said the detective. "Go on.” 


284 


A SLENDER CLUE 


‘I was here quite often as the time for Bertha’s wed- 
ding drew near,” went on Larsen. "Nobody knew how 
often Bertha and I talked together; I kept a calm out- 
ward appearance, but I begged her to take me back, up 
to the very last. Finally, she consented.” 

He had been talking with his eyes turned away, but 
he now turned about, and fixed them upon Stanhope 
almost clefiantl}^ "She consented to run away with me 
— and she did the planning herself.” 

He stopped again evidently expecting from his audi- 
tor some comment or sign of surprise, but Stanhope sat 
immovable and he went on again. 

"A week before the time fixed for the wedding I went 
away and they all thought it was because I didn’t 
want to be at the wedding. On the night that she dis- 
appeared I was back. I drove across the country twenty 
miles with two good horses; I put the ladder up to the 
window and she came down upon it. She had dis- 
arranged the room herself.” 

He got up and began to walk up and down the floor, 
his hands locked together and working convulsively. 

"Well?” said Stanhope, coolly following him with his 
eyes. 

"Bertha had told me what to do while I was in the 
city, and I had engaged a room for her in a little out- 
of-the-way hotel, that was neat and decent enough, and 
was kept by honest folks. When I took her into my 
buggy that night, she carried no baggage, except a small 
hand-sachel, and we drove across to Rivers, where I left 
the team, and took the early morning train for the city. 
She stayed alone on the little platform, while I took the 
team around to the stable, where I got it; and the pas- 
sengers on board the train were too sleepy to notice us. 
We went on board separately, and did not speak on 
the way. 


A STRANGE CONFESSION 


285 


When we reached the city, I took her straight to her 
hotel; she did not register, and I left her in the parlor* 
she was to wait for me, while I hurried back to Upton, 
to throw the people off the scent, and pretend to join 
in the fuss and cry, when her absence was discovered.” 

He turned in his walk, and stopped short. Stanhope 
had risen, and was standing before him with folded arms. 

"Go on," he said imperiously. 

"When I went back to the city,” said Larsen, his 
hands writhing and his lips livid, "she was gone. I 
questioned and searched; I raved and cursed; I nearly 
went mad; I advertised, I set spies out to look for her, 
I haunted hotels, theaters, any place where I thought 
she might be. After more than a week of wild search, 
I came back here with my mind made up t© see the 
detective John Warham had sent for, and to tell him 
the truth. Find her for me! Fll go over all the 
ground with you; I’ll do your bidding.” 

His voice broke, he resumed his restless walk to and 
fro. Stanhope looked after him, a frown wrinkling his 
brow. 

"I’m afraid you’ve forgotten something,” he said 
sharply. Didn’t you write Miss Warham some threat- 
ening letters?” 

"Yes,” replied the other promptly, "I did, one espe- 
cially.” 

“Ugh! I should say so! and what did she write you in 
return?” 

"Nothing.” 

"Take care!” 

"Nothing; I tell you she never answered me, never 
wrote me a line after she broke with me that Sunday.” 

"She wrote you,” said Stanhope steadily, "a long let- 
ter in which she spoke of a secret which concerned you, 
and which was in part her reason for breaking with you. 


286 


A SLENDER CLUE 


She closed her letter by assuring you that she would 
keep that secret. My friend, you had better make a clean 
breast of it.” 

Larson turned upon him fiercely. 

“It’s a lie!” he cried. “I never received such a letter. 
I know of no such secret. What do you mean? I tell 
you that I have been half-mad for weeks; do you want 
to drive me wholly out of my senses?” 

"No, but let me warn you if you don’t stop indulging 
in these satanic moods of yours, you will be more than 
half-mad. When a man can’t control his temper he 
is on the high road to lunacy. Pm very much obliged 
to you, Mr. Larsen, .taking it for granted that you have 
told me the truth, I can see clearly why Bertha War- 
ham ran away, with you first, and fro7n you afterward.” 

“Why, why, why! ” 

“Never mind why. There’s an if in the way. Pm by 
no means sure that you have told me the truth. I begin 
to suspect that you’re a shrewder fellow than you look, 
my dear sir.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“1 mean this: 1 can see plainly, having heard your little 
story, and witnessed these little ebullitions of temper, 
how, from motives of revenge, you might have decoyed 
Bertha Warham from her home first, and murdered her 
afterward. My faith in you is not great, Mr. Joseph 
Larsen. You’ve got to convince my senses. In the 
meantime 1 guess you had better consider yourself under 
arrest.’ 

Again, as on the night before, Larsen sprang to- 
ward him livid with rage — panting and glaring like a 
wild beast. Stanhope stepped nimbly back, and present- 
ed something coldly glittering in the face of the furious 
man. He halted suddenly, looking, as he stood, like a 
paralyzed demon. 


A STRANGE CONFESSION 


287 


‘*There’s something marvelously soothing about a self- 
cocking revolver," remarked the detective as he moved 
backward toward the door, keeping Larsen well covered 
with the weapon. Then he threw the door wide open 
and called "Susan!" 

In a moment they heard Susan’s firm foot coming 
quickly up the stairs. 

"Susan,” said Stanhope speaking over his shoulder, 
"you need not mind about coming in. You see the sit- 
uation. Where are the hired men?” 

"They’re around the place doing the chores,” said 
Susan, staring from one to the other. "They sleep at the 
barn, you know.” 

"Well, Susan, send the quickest and most sensible one 
to Upton at once for a notary and the sheriff. We must 
have them at once : Mr. Larsen and I will be obliged to 
entertain each other, as you see, until they come. 
I say, Susan, did that fellow ever have a fit?” 

"Not that I ever heard of.” 

"Well, he looks like having one now; hurry, Susan.” 

To his surprise Susan crossed the threshold and came 
slow beside him. "May be you’d better go yourself,” 
she suggested in a low tone. "Give me that pistol 
and I’ll look after him.” 

"Susan," said Stanhope with a short laugh, "it breaks 
my heart that I can’t look at you. You’re a woman worth 
looking at, but I can’t accept your offer; send the man. ” 

"The men are fools!” snapped Susan, turning away. 
"I’ll go myself.” 


CHAPTER XXX 


THE POINT OF VIEW 

From Mrs. Jacob Baring to a friend in Philadelphia. 

"Dear Friend: Your very entertaining letter of 

some weeks since was deserving of a more speedy 
answer, but, as you know, I am not at any time a prompt 
correspondent, and, just now I am somewhat given over 
to affairs that in reality are not mine, but which inter- 
est me immensely, even to the neglect of my friends, 
you will say; nevertheless, I think you may find an 
interest in them too, when I tell you that they are the 
affairs of Ellen Jernyngham. 

"In spite of your fears and my predictions Ellen has 
found a fia?ice who suits her; and whom she seems to 
suit. 

"Does not this furnish you food for some reflection? 

"You know Ellen as I do — how lier pride has held her 
aloof from the lovers who flock naturally about a beauty 
who is also an heiress, and how in spite of her goodTooks 
and her wealth she has not seemed to attract those of her 
set whom she mighty perhaps have considered eligible. 

"Ellen, as you know is a favorite of mine; but I can- 
not be blind to the fact, that, in spite of her good looks, 
which are undeniable, and her style, which is perfection, 
her fine education and admirable conversational powers 
when she chooses to converse, her splendid family, 
and, I name it last, her wealth, she has not for 
the many, those mysterious qualities which -go to make 
what we call an attractive woman. 

288 


THE POINT OF FIElV 


289 


“One man, however, has found her attractive, and he 
has proven himself a man worthy of her consideration. 
Mr. Jermyn is an Englishman of unimpeachable 
descent, the younger son in fact of an English noble- 
man, Sir Ralph Foster Jertnyn. We might say that this 
engagement is the result of accident, for Mr. Jermyn, 
who is a studious man with literary tendencies, came' to 
our village unheralded, and not intending to make his 
true status known. He came simply for a quiet sum- 
mer’s recreation, hoping to find retreat where he could 
pursue his favorjte studies, and see and learn something 
of the ‘average American village.’ He certainly has 
gained some new ideas on this latter subject, for he had 
been but a few days in Roseville when his landlady, a 
vulgar village gossip, found among his books and papers, 
a letter from his father containing bits of family history 
which convinced her that she was harboring, if not an 
‘angel unawares,’ at least a very distinguished guest, 
whose father was a member of the British nobility, 
and who had left that father’s house because he pre- 
ferred freedom, rather than a titled bride. 

“The woman who had made the discoveries imparted 
her secret to a person who was shrewd enough to see 
the possible advantage to herself of keeping silence on 
the subject, and the gentleman enjoyed for a time his 
peaceful seclusion, but gossip will not rem.ain smoth- 
ered, and slowly it crept from lip to lip until all Rose- 
ville was in possession of the secret. 

“I must say that M. Jermyn’s deportment throughout 
the ordeal of village notoriety, (the word is more apt 
than it seems), was perfection itself. He has a most 
happy manner, not haughty, and yet upon certain people 
it has the effect of hauteur. He is far from condescend- 
ing, nor yet has he that ungracious air that some of our 
young people find so objectionable in Ellen. It is 


290 


A SLENDER CLUE 


a perfect manner and therefore impossible to describe. 
I am obliged to confess that he is, to me, a trifle incom- 
prehensible, so quiet in his manner, so unruffled in his 
calm, so perfect his ease under circumstances and mid 
surroundings that must be novel to him. He is re- 
served, almost unapproachable, and all with an uncon- 
scious air of believing himself a very simple open book; 
and yet you feel, you know, there are limits which you 
cannot pass. 

' He suits Ellen perfectly; she is proud of him, and 
they make a fine-looking couple; he is slender and fair, 
with handsome, regular features, and the shapeliest of 
hands and feet. Lillian declares that they might fulfill 
their mission here below by posing as statues of aris- 
tocratic perfection, but you know Lillian. 

“The wedding will take place soon, I think. I did not 
suppose that Ellen would consent to so short an engage- 
ment, but he seems to possess her completely, and it is 
his wish. It will be a quiet wedding, again at Mr. 
Jermyn’s desire, but you may be sure that it will be very 
elegant as well. Ellen has no near relatives, and I hope 
to gain her consent, and his, to a plan I have made. 
I want her to return, after her necessary journey to the 
city, to attend to the preparations of her trousseau, and be 
married at ‘The Hills.^ I think Mr. Jermyn will favor 
my plan, and depend upon him to win Ellen over. 

“Our little summer party has been a very pleasant one; 
I have found in it but one discordant element, and that in 
the too frequent presence of the young person I have 
told you of in whom Kenneth took such an interest. 
I do not like her, but she has made herself a favorite with 
our young people, through the possession of that same 
nameless attractiveness, which poor Ellen lacks. What- 
ever this quality is, Rene Brian certainly possesses it. 
She is pretty and has a certain piquancy, but in looks 


THE POINT OF I^IEIV 


291 


Ellen surely is her equal, and in style and manner greatly 
her superior, and yet I have fancied, and so I think has 
Ellen, that this girl has almost succeeded in establish- 
ing herself as a rival. Certainly Mr. Jermyn regards her 
with interest, but it is a frank interest; he tells Ellen 
that she is an ‘uncommon type.^ She is an un- 
pleasant ‘type,’ to me. I think that she is still in- 
terested in Kenneth, who is somewhere in the South- 
ern States; sometimes I think they correspond; it 
would be like her. She has a brother who is quite too 
attentive to one of my nieces, the youngest of the 
Baring girls. But I am wearying you with my gossip. 

“If Ellen’s marriage occurs here I shall expect you to 
come. 

“Remember me to the many in whom we are mutually 
interested, and inform me in your next of the happenings 
in our city. I am behind the times. 

“Yours most sincerely, Henrietta R. Baring." 

Fro7n Miss Jernyngham to her most intimate friend. 

“Hortense, my Dear Friend: 

“Your very welcome letter with its cordial invi- 
tation is now before me. A few weeks ago I should 
have said without hesitation, yes, I will go with you, to 
make my home under those sunny Italian skies we both 
love so well. And I would have turned my back upon 
my native land with all its flaunt and show, its great lit- 
tleness and little greatness, its parvennes and place- 
hunters, with no deep feeling of regret; for what would 
I leave behind? A few sincere friends, and many who 
are friends only in outward seeming; no near relatives, 
for my recreant half-brother, my nearest in this world, 
is, no one knows where. He left his home so long ago, 
and has been so long silent that I have ceased to hope 
for his return; in fact I begin to fear it almost, for what 


292 


A SLENDER CLUE 


may not ten long years of wandering have made of him? 
But I digress. I might have shared your voluntary exile 
gladly, for I believed that there was nothing here to keep 
me, or to care for. But all this is changed. 

“Once in our intimate, pleasant school-girl friendship 
you extracted, almost extorted from me a promise; and 
you gave me one in return. Your promise — we will 
not speak now of mine — it has reached the time of its 
fulfillment. He has come at last — that prince of whom 
you desired to hear — and according to my school day 
contract, I write you, first of all, the news of my be- 
trothal to Edward Poinsett Jermyn, the son of an 
English peer. 

“I will not describe him to you — you who know me 
must, I think, feel assured that he has more than his no- 
ble birth to recommend him. He is a man of more, than 
ordinary culture and refinement, and his outward seem- 
ing is all that it should be; his manners. Miss Rooseveldt 
would say, are those of a prince; you know Adeline is 
given to gushing, in her weak little way — but princes 
sometimes have very bad manners indeed, and Mr. 
Jermyn’s manners are perfect. I find no flaw in 
them. And I am credited with being fastidious. He 
is all that the prince, my prince, should be, lack- 
ing no gift or grace that a prince should possess. So 
much dignity, so much reserve, so much strength of 
intellect, such an air of — I was about to say command, 
but it is not that, he has not the air of command, but he 
possesses the qualities that call forth instinctive com- 
pliance — he has a commanding presence without the air. 

“He left his home and country because of a misunder- 
standing with his father who desired to mate him with 
the daughter, the only child, of a nobleman whose estate 
adjoined that of Sir Ralph Jermyn. He refused the 
alliance, having no affection for the lady, and came here, 


THE POINT OF yiElV 


293 


a voluntary exile. He does not desire to return to Eng- 
land, and will not do so unless (there is such a possi- 
bility) he is called to take up his father’s duties with 
his father’s title, some day. 

"I had thought to take the important step, that 
changes my destiny perhaps, amid the old scenes, in 
Philadelphia, but Mrs. Baring is so good as to wish 
me to be married (how strange that looks) here at The 
Hills. Mr. Jermyn, too, desires it. He has, he says, a 
sentiment about it, and has besought me so eaimestly to 
remain here that I have yielded — reluctantly, I must 
admit. 

“Can you delay your sailing a little? Will you come 
to us here? When once you have crossed the ocean it 
may be long years before we meet, and I want you to 
see him. 

“I realize that this is not a calmly composed or well- 
written letter; I am not quite my usual calm self; so let 
me end it here.^ When I have received your reply I 
may be able to write more coherently, more at my ease. 
Until then I am, 

“Your friend as of old, 

“Ellen A. Jernyngham. “ 

Miss Grace Rooseveldt to her confidante in Philadel- 
phia. 

“My Own Dearest Maud: 

“I am horribly disappointed, and completely out 
of humor. Just think of having to stay here another 
month ‘to watch the ghost of the summer,’ as Lill Sun- 
derland says, and all on account of Ellen Jernyngham. 

“She is going to be married at last. To be married here 
at Aunt Jake’s. And we must all be made martyrs be- 
cause of it. Adeline is as delighted as if she were going 
to be married herself; you know she always did hold 


294 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Ellen up as a pattern of perfection, and she thinks him — 
the man in the case — perfection too. My dear, did you 
ever see a perfect man? I am sure you never did; 
there can’t be many of them, so I am going to describe 
this one to you: Face, pale and blonde and regular, and 
expressionless; eyes pale blue, that look over you and 
around you, and sometimes through you, but never 
laugh or smile or twinkle — I would not dare affirm that 
they even wink; hands and feet exceedingly ‘aristo- 
cratic,’ figure, medium in height, slender, graceful, inca- 
pable of taking an awkward attitude — so much at ease 
everywhere and under all circumstances that it becomes 
exasperating to watch him; perfectly fitting clothes in 
perfect taste; a quiet that Ad. declares to be ‘splen- 
did repose,’ 1 call it calm superiority; a low, slow, 
soft voice that always says the right thing in the right 
way; a slow smile that never^ as I said before, creeps 
up to the eyes, his nearest approach to a laugh being a 
slight agitation of the lips accompanied by a soft sound 
that dies away quickly and makes you feel that to 
laugh an honest, natural, full-grown laugh would be a sin. 
This is the bridegroom elect, Mr. Edward Poinsett 
Jermyn; now let me add that he is an Englishman, the 
son of Lord somebody, and that he once refused, re- 
fused! the hand of a titled Englishwoman — I suppose it 
was leap year — and then, tell me, could we — could any 
honest American — endure more? And yet we must all 
remain and be victimized, because Ellen must go off in 
a blaze of glory with seven bridesmaids, viz: the Baring 
girls, the Sunderlands, Rene Brian, of whom I have writ- 
ten you. Ad. — and myself. Ellen and Aunt Jake are to 
go to the city to shop, and we are to remain here to 
keep up a sort of festive accompaniment to the wed- 
ding preparations and the billing and cooing of the 
happy pair. 


THE POINT OF FIEIV 


295 


"We have had a very jolly summer — how Adeline 
hates that word! You know how much I like the Brians. 
Charlie is just the opposite of Mr. Jermyn in manner, 
and better-looking, to my notion— only another draw- 
back to the general pleasure — he and Lotta are becom- 
ing a little too serious and absorbed in each other. 
One pair of lovers is barely endurable, in a party like 
ours two pair, although they are so different, are too much 
for human nature. 

"I sometimes wish for poor cousin Kenneth — I will call 
him cousin although he is not exactl}^ that. We never 
dare mention him in Aunt Jake^s presence, but she lit- 
tle guesses how much we talk of him and know of his 
whereabouts. He writes to Lotta occasionally and 
to Rene Brian regularly. Aunt Jake dislikes Rene, in fact, 
her last quarrel with Ken dated from an attempt on 
her part to 'put down’ Rene. But since Lin and Lotta 
have taken her up and stand by her so stanchly. Aunt 
Jake is outwardly courteous and Ellen Jernyngham has 
asked her to be on*e of the brides-maids although I hap- 
pen to know that Ellen has no especial love for Rene; 
I can not say so much for Mr. Jermyn, (do you notice 
the similarity of names, Jermyn, Jernyngham? I am sure 
it will prove unlucky for one,) Mr. Jermyn certainly 
admires Rene very much. 

"There — Lin and Lotta have invaded my sanctuary; 
for the present I must lay aside my pen — to be con — ” 

Frotn Rene Brian to Kefineth Baring at New Orleans. 

"‘My Dear Friend: — Your last letter pleased me; I 
am glad to think of you as so self-reliant, so content, so 
equal to the emergencies that have arisen in your path- 
way, and I am glad that you have developed so much 
philosophy — you will say no doubt that you always pos- 
sessed it — but if so I must beg to remind you that it 


39C 


A SLENDER CLUE 


was not sufficient to keep you under the same roof with 
the lady you are so polite as to term a ‘mistaken gentle- 
woman/ Courage, Ken; your father, I am sure, thinks 
of you very kindly; and after all you were a trifle at 
fault. The a-forementioned gentlewoman, by the by, 
has been of late unusually courteous to me— rather, she 
has been courteous where it was her custom to ignore 
my existence. 

"Undoubtedly Lotta has gossiped to you of the 
doings at the Hills and the wedding in prospective. So 
I need say nothing of that, especially as I utterly fail in 
getting up an enthusiasm over the high contracting par- 
ties. In fact, and in spite of iny philosophy, I rather dis- 
like one of them, with, I must confess, no good and 
sufficient reason for so doing. 

"It will all be over soon, and we shall have settled back 
into our old dull comfortable routine, while you plod 
steadily on toward manly independence. Honestly, Ken 
this cutting loose from your father^s bank-account is not, 
in my opinion, the greatest of your misdeeds; a man’s 
best qualities must come out when he stands alone to 
face the world, and you, I am sure, have the courage that 
in the end must conquer. How I am preaching! It all 
comes of burrowing among high-flown editorials, and 
hatching pretty sentences for the local column — alas! 
that same local column — awaits me at this moment. 
Adieu, for the time; accept my congratulations for your 
successful beginning; my best wishes for those future 
successes which I predict for you, and for your health 
and happiness now and always. 

"Your Friend, Rene Brian. 

The marriage of the heiress and the aristocrat was 
the first and niost interesting topic in Roseville, from the 
day when the affair first became known until the day of 
its consummation. 


THE POINT OF VIEIV 


297 


Nothing else could equal it in interest — not even the 
disappearance of Bertha Warham from her home in a 
neighboring town, followed as it was by the murder of her 
step-mother. Roseville heard all this, and it was rumored 
too that detectives, in search of information, were in her 
very midst; even this proved less interesting to the ad- 
mirers of the "English aristocrat" than the news afloat 
about this time, that said aristocrat was the victim of 
"a slight indisposition” \vhich rendered him invisible for 
a number of days. 

In spite of the fact that it was to have been, to quote 
the bride elect, “a quiet affair,” and to quote the bride- 
groom elect, "a simple ceremony,” Mrs. Baring had 
skimmed the cream of Roseville with a discreet hand 
and a limited quantity of genuine Philadelphia cream, 
richer of course, and thicker and yellower, but lacking 
perhaps the freshness of the Roseville article, gave just 
the right flavor to the occasion. 

Mrs. Brace and Mrs. Allsop were not of the cream, but 
they discussed the event with indignant enthusiasm, 
seated in Mr. Jermyn's late si tting-room, vacated by him 
only that morning. 

"One would a-thought,” said Mrs. Allsop, looking 
resentful in behalf of her friend, 'that they’d a’ invited 
you, Brace." 

"It’s my belief,” returned the landlady with an indig- 
nant sniff, "that if he'd a’ had the sayin’, I’d a’ been 
invited. Mrs. Allsop, if I’d a’ done that man a 
thousand-dollar favor, over an’ agin, instead of just lookin’ 
into his rooms an’ takin’ care o’, his things, as, to be 
sure, it was only my business to do, he couldn’t a’ been 
politer than he always was, nor thankfuller than he was 
this very mornin’.” 

"La!" said Mrs. Allsop, "you don’t say so." 

"Yes I do; when I come in here with my broom an’ 


398 


A SLENDER CLUE 


dust -rag this mornin’ he steps out of his bedroom already 
drest for the surremony, an^ I tell you he looked splen- 
did, an’ says he as smilin’ as could be, ‘Mrs. Brace, 
Ma’m, I feel deeply grateful to you.’ ‘My!’ says I, ‘Mr. 
Jerming what have I done?’ ‘You have done;’ says he 
‘what few women, I may say no woman, unless, it may 
be, another like yourself could have done for me,’ an’ 
then he actually stopped an’ laffed the biggest laff I ever 
seen him give.’ ‘You’ve taken a almost motherly interest 
in me,’ he says ‘you have made me feel very comfortable 
here’ says he; ‘whenever I think of Roseville I shall 
think of you,’ Ma’am, and here is a small proof of my 
regard.’ 

"Then he put a envelope into my hand right along 
with the dust-rag an’ went back inter his bedroom an’ 
shut the door." 

"Umm," said Mrs. Allsop. 

"I didn’t want to open the envelope there'" ran on Mrs 
Brace, "so I jist scooted over to my bedroom an’ shut 
myself in.” Here she paused and looked at Mrs. Allsop. 

"Well!" said that lady sharply. 

"What do you suppose was in that envelope, now?" 

"Umph! His fotygraff. " 

"No md* am!" 

"Goodness me! I can’t guess;" Mrs. Allsop was grow- 
ing frigid. 

"It was a bran new fifty-^o\\2X bill." 

Mrs. Allsop was frozen. Had they not been equals 
hitherto, joint holders of a stock secret and now — Mrs. 
Allsop aroused herself. 

"I wonder what Brace’ll say to that." 

"Brace!" Mrs. B — gave her head a defiant toss. "He 
hadn’t better say anything. That fifty dollars is a going 
into a bran new silk dress, sa-age green." 

"Well," said Mrs. Allsop rising, and tightening her bon- 


THE POINT OF VIEIV 


299 


net strings, "I must be a’ goin’. No, thanky, I<:d!«’/stay 
to tea. Hope ye may enjoy yer sage green silk, Mrs. 
Brace — sage green’s a very good color. But I can tell ye 
this. I don’t take no stock in yer Mister Englishman; 
an’ there won’t no good come of this highfalutin’ wed- 
din’, you'll see.” 

“The cheeky old thing! ” she muttered when she had 
reached the street, "to go an’ take that bill, humph! 
she'll see!” 

And before sunset the village dressmaker, across whose 
threshold many a secret had passed to lose its identity 
forever more, was aware of the beginning' and the end. 
The only portions not yet generally known to Roseville 
of the story of the letter, and the fifty-dollar bill. And in 
the sanctity of the dressmaker’s small parlor, these 
secrets were swallowed at a gulp by "I heard," and "They 
say. ” 

"I’m glad its over,” sighed Rene Brian when, after a 
day of feasting and congratulations, flowers, music, pomp 
and flutter, with five minutes of wedding ceremony to 
give it flavor, she stood at last in her own little sitting- 
room, pulling at a slightly soiled glove, and glancing 
ruefully at her brother. 

"I thought women always enjoyed .a wedding.” 

"You never thought a thing so silly, Chari’ Brian; such 
a wedding too." 

"What went wrong— pretty girls, lovely dresses, ele- 
gant bride, distinguished bridegroom — ” 

"Mr. Brian, if you are arranging a pretty paragraph 
for the Roseville News, permit me to retire.” 

"Don’t go, Rene,” his tone growing more serious, "I 
want you to ex— to tell me something. No, I want to 
tell you something.” 




300 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“Oh! How very singular." Rene sat down in a low 
rocker. 

“It was only about a picture, sis; the only unpleasant 
picture that I saw to-day." 

Reine quoted something under her breath, of which he 
could only catch the words, “cupid" and “stupid." 

“I was standing at one of the drawing-room windows 
talking with Lotta Baring," he began. 

“How singular!" interpolated his sister. 

“Be quiet, miss! I was standing with my back to the 
light; Lotta sat on a low seat facing me." 

“How interesting! " sighed Rene. 

“As we talked I could look across the drawing-room, 
over her head. It was after the — " 

“Marriage rite?" suggested Rene. 

“After that and the — a breakfast." 

“Why didn’t you say ‘Feast of reason,’ you know you 
wanted to." 

“Wait, miss ; I could look for a moment, from my win- 
dow, straight across to another window, and there saw 
my picture." 

He paused for the usual jibe, but it did not come. 

“It consisted of three figures," he resumed; “one, that 
of a young woman with a very icy look upon her face. 
The second, the figure of a man blonde and handsome. 
He was leaning toward the icy young woman with what 
looked like appeal in his eyes, and he held out his hand; 
his attention for the moment was concentrated upon the 
icy girl. In response to something the man said, the icy 
girl put her icy fingers in his for half a second, seeming to 
grow more icy in the act. Then the third figure made 
a sudden movement; it was a splendid figure — all sheeny 
satin, and silky lace, and clinging veil. It had seemed 
to be looking from the window, a little aloof from the 
other two. But it leaned forward suddenly and bent 


THE POINT OF VIEIV 


301 


a look, such a black, somber, angry look upon the 
appealing man, and the icy girl. Then other figures 
came between the picture and me.” 

I were you,” said Rene without lifting her eyes, 
“for the sake of propriety, I would call that scene you 
have just described a pantomime — not a picture.” 

‘T will call it anything you like, my sister,” he said, 
very seriously now, ”if you will tell me what the hand- 
some man said to the icy girl; and what the woman in 
bridal array said to them both.” 

*T will not tell!” she cried springing up suddenly; “and 
you need not ask it, why must I be perpetually antioyed 
about that man? I hate him! I am glad he is gone? Pm 
glad they are both gone! and I hope I will never, 7iever, 
NEVER see their faces again!” and with flashing eyes and 
flushed cheeks Rene Brian hastened from the room. 

“E. Percy Jermyn and his bride drove away from “The 
Hills” in Jacob Baring’s costly barouche, followed by a 
chorus of laughing adieus, a shower of rice, and half a 
dozen dainty white slippers. 

The bride was calm and very stately, but the bride- 
groom unbent for once, and sent his smiles and jests and 
debonair adieus back to the merry groups upon piazza 
and lawn, as they rolled down the tree-lined slope and 
out of the gates. 

But when those gates had closed behind them, he 
turned to the lady beside him and dropped his airy tone. 
“Ellen, my dear, I dare you did not forget your mil- 
liner or costumer, and have nothing now to ask from 
either. But I— alas!” he put his hand to his breast and 
from an inner pocket drew two letters half-way, letting 
her see the names merely, then thrusting them back and 
dropping the hand lightly upon her own, which she had 
seemed about to extend. “We are to spend only two 


302 


A SLENDER CLUE 


days in Chicago, and yet, so careless am I, I neglected 
to order from hatter and clothier the bare necessaries 
of life. Therefore, permit me to order George to drive 

past the postoffice and let me post my two lettofs so 

that they may go promptly. We don^t care to be detained 
in that city of push and crudity, because of a belated 
chapeau, do we?” 

"Can you not give the letters to George and let 
him — ” 

"My dear!" He drew out the two letters, which were 

sealed and addressed, and laid them in her lap with a 

smile, "would you have the name of my tailor and hatter 
made known to all Roseville. George has curiosity for 
two and a nimble tongue." 

She glanced at the envelopes and read upon one the 
name of a famous dealer m gentleman’s apparel, upon 
the other, "Alexander Primrose, Hatter,” and smiled as 
he gathered them up and told the coachman to stop. 

A moment later he stood at the little office window. 

"Some postage-stamps if you please," he said and while 
the man turned to supply his want, Mr. Jermyn’s deft fin- 
gers tore off the two envelopes, bearing the names of dra- 
per and hatter, and thrusting their fragments into an 
outer pocket of his light top coat, held in his hand two 
letters the wrappers a trifle smaller than those just cast 
off, and differently addressed. On one was inscribed to 
the "Mrs. Sarah Blake, Seamstress,” and this envelope 
contained a brief note running thus: 

"Madam. — I shall be in Chicago to-morrow and will 
call for the garments at 6:30 p. m. Please ho. pro jnpt. 

"E P. J." 

The other envelope bore the name and address of the 
chief of police. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


IN CONSULTATION 

"When doctors disagree," the result is not necessarily 
disastrous to the subject of the argument; indeed, it 
has happened that while "isms and opathies" bat- 
tered each other's heads, fiugratively of course, nature, 
before ignored and pushed to the wall, has found time 
to assert herself, and the victim of the "opathies and 
isms” has escaped with his life. 

When detectives disagree; rhe result is not so happy. 
For the innocent are hunted and persecuted equally 
with the guilty, and it has happened that the wrong 
was never righted; that through many fingers the guilty 
have escaped, and the innocent suffered ignominy, im- 
prisonment; yes — to our everlasting shame and humil- 
liation — even death. 

While Rufus Carnes, ignorant of all that was trans- 
piring, was recovering from his hurts, and coming back 
to strength and health, the "doctors” were disagreeing, 
and bringing about a state of affairs that rendered the 
Warham mystery a double mystery, and worse — made 
of it, the strangest complication that ever puzzled the 
heads of detectives or figured in the annals of crime. 

On the seventh day of his imprisonment, Carnes was 
sitting in an easy-chair, his head still bandaged, talking 
with Captain B — , the chief of police. 

The windows were open and a mild breeze was rust- 
ling softly among a pile of newspapers open and lying 

303 


804 


A SLENDER CLUE 


loosely upon the table between them. The eyes of the 
invalid were bright and his look animated. 

He had been reading through the mass of papers be- 
fore him the printed accounts of what had become 
known as the "Warham Murder Mystery,” and he had 
been listening to the little, not exploited by the press, 
which Captain B — . could tell him. Through it all he 
had been very silent, very thoughtful. 

“It’s a new thing for His Honor to do,” said Carnes, 
after a pause in the conversation. 'T should very much 
like to forecast what it will lead to.” 

“It will lead,” said the captain with a grin, to one 
result; the one he aims at. Several thousand of our voting 
citizens will say: Great is the Mayor of our city who 
hunts down crime with the city pocket-book and keeps the 
city’s police to look after the city’s safety.” 

“The city, fudge! A blind man can see his motive in 
setting ‘Sharp’s Agency’ upon this case at the city’s ex- 
pense ; and it was a neat thing to do too at this time. 
There’s been a deal of fault found with our loose way 
of dealing with crime and criminals here. His Honor 
has done a neat thing for himself; it won’t cost him a 
cent and it’ll be a bonanza for some of Sharp’s men — 
but — ” 

“Carnes,” broke in Captain B — , “I heard this morning 
that Sharp had made an effort to get you back.” 

“Umph! ” 

The captain leaned across the table and looked him 
squarely in the face. “Is that true?” he asked. 

“Umph!” grunted Carnes again. “Why do you want to 
know?” 

“Simply because if you are going back to Sharp I 
want to leave unsaid what otherwise I intend to say to 
you. " 

“Captain," asked Carnes abruptly, “do you intend tg 


IN CONSULTATION 


305 


let Sharp and his men and his Honor the Mayor do all 
the running?” 

"Carnes,” said Captain B — , with a very good imitation 
of the detective’s manner, "do intend to help Sharp 
Sc Co., or do you not?” 

"Well — no, I don’t.” 

"But they have applied to you?” 

"Yes.” 

"And you told them — ” 

"That I had another case in hand.” 

"Is that true?" 

"Yes.” 

The captain broke into a laugh. 

"You know, Carnes," he said, slowly, “that I am 
utterly ignorant concerning your dealings with thit 
woman? ” 

Carnes nodded. 

"When I came home, and learned that she was dead 
— murdered — I was puzzled; but I made up my mind not 
to reveal the little that I knew, until I had learned more 
about her, and the manner of' her death, and had seen 
you. It couldn’t do much good to make public the fact 
that I had seen the woman, and knew what brought her 
to the city.” 

Carnes started as if struck with some sudden thought, 
and then said quietly, "That’s so.” 

"And it might complicate matters very much.” 

"I should think so,” muttered Carnes. 

"So I have kept silent, and no one, save yourself, 
knows that she applied to me for aid, and that I turned 
her over to you. But you must see that I feel a certain 
responsibility. Look at it! Here is a woman, a stranger 
in the city; she comes to me for aid. Comes to the 
office of the chief of police. I turn her over to yo2i — 
a detective. At an unfortunate time, when you are dis- 


306 


A SLENDER CLUE 


abled and I absent, she is found dead in an alley; 
Carnes, iCs a thing that we wouldn^t care to see in the 
newspapers." 

"Confound the newspapers!" 

"Amen to that. As 1 have said, no one knows that 
the woman, Lucretia Warham, was, in a manner, under 
my protection and yours. It would serve no good pur- 
pose to make it public. But my knowledge imposes a 
duty upon me. His. Honor and Sharp may do their ut- 
most, and I wish them success. As for me, I will use 
every dollar and every man I can command, if necessary. 
I will leave nothing undone, no stone unturned, to find 
the murderer of Miss. Warham." 

"Amen, and amen!" said Rufus Carnes solemnly. 
"Pm with you there." 

"Does that mean you will join me?" 

"No." 

There was a moment of silence between them and 
then the captain said: 

"I can’t understand you, Carnes, but my confidence in 
you is unlimited. So I say again, I am going into this 
business with all my might, and I am going to begin 
by telling you all that I have learned since I came back. 
It seems that Colton of Colton & Rouke, bankers, is 
the friend in some degree of Mrs. Warham’s hus- 
band—" 

Carnes made a quick movment and opened his lips to 
speak, then checked himself, and as the captain paused 
said impatiently. 

"Go on — go on!" 

"When Colton saw the description of the murdered 
woman, and learned that she had been identified as one 
Mrs. Warham, he went straight to the morgue, claimed 
the body as agent for John Warham, the husband, and 
took full charge of affairs. He telegraphed for instruc- 


IN CONSULTATION 


B07 


tions, and was requested to act for Mr. Warham. The 
next day he called at my office; as you know, I was not 
there. " 

“Umph! Go on.” 

"Next day he came again. I bad not been back three 
hours. He told me, what I already knew, that Mrs. 
Warham came to this city to search for her missing 
step-daughter. He had just received a letter written 
by a young man whom he had sent to act as escort, 
with the body of the murdered woman. He also told 
me that nearly two weeks ago, he had received a letter 
from John Warham asking him to send a’t once an able 
detective, but giving no hint as to the nature of the serv- 
ice he required. ‘By a fortunate accident,^ I am quot- 
ing his words, ‘he became aware that very day, that^ a 
keen young fellow, who had, upon occasion, done one of 
his friends great service, was at leisure, and in the city. 
He had secured the services of this keen young person 
and sent him in to the country, to place himself at Mr. 
Warham’s disposal.’ " 

"Yes, yes!” ejaculated Carnes impatiently. 

"Well, the upshot of the matter was just this: The 
old man, for he is an old man, is too feeble to come 
in person, and he has appointed this 'keen young fel- 
low,’ sent him by Colton, his agent, giving him author- 
ity to draw upon Colton for funds, and to act in the 
matter as his keen young judgment shall dictate. Mr. 
Colton’s business was to tell me these things and to ask 
me to co-operate with Mr. Warham’s chosen agent, and 
assist him to the extent of my power. Mr. Colton was not 
aware, until I enlightened him, that Sharp & Co. and 
His Honor were already in the field.” 

"Well?” queried Carnes with growing interest. 

"Colton seems to look upon his Honor’s latest bid 
for popularity very much as you and I do, and he did 


308 


A SLENDER CLUE 


not express unlimited confidence in Sharp and his min- 
ions. He’s a reticent old fellow and there’s a good deal 
of starch in him, but he don’t leave you at a loss to 
understand his meaning. He’ll rest his case in the 
hands of the ‘keen,’ young fellow, and the city police.” 

”1 suppose,” said Carnes giving the bandage about his 
temples a nervous twitch, “you are aware that you haven’t 
named this keen chap of Colton’s selection?” 

"His name,” said Capain B his face relaxing in a 

broad smile, his name is — a — Stanhope — Richard Stan- 
iiope!" 

”I knew it, ’’"cried Carnes excitedly. “I knew it. 
We couldn’t ask for a better thing!” 

"I don’ t just see your drift, ” said Captain B — , wrink^ 
]4ng his brows and scanning his friends face curiously. 
“You say we — and yet — ” 

Carnes got up and walked across the room, turned, 
came back, and resumed his seat, laughing a short nerv- 
ous laugh and pulling again at his bandages. 

“ril tell you,” he said with growing animation. "Or — 
rather. I’ll tell you my experience, since I saw 3 ^ou 
last, then you’ll understand me — perhaps.” 

"Wait,” said captain B — , "let me say my say out 
first. Colton has contrived to keep his name out of the 
newspapers, and owing to the commendable shrewdness 
and forethought of the clerk of the Avenue House, the re- 
porters have missed another item — which Sharp & Co., 
are making much of.” 

"What’s that?” 

"They have, or think they have, a clue." 

"No!” 

"It seems that Mrs. Warham kept her business very 
close; they did not so much as guess at it at the Avenue. 
But, she had a visitor.” 

"Why — of course!” Carnes stopped suddenly and stared 
at his vis a vis. 


IN CONSULTATION 


309 


"On two successive afternoons,” went pn the chief of 
police, "she received a visitor, a middle-aged dapper busi- 
ness-like fellow, who remained upon each occasion an 
hour or more. ” 

Carnes began to. grin. 

"This person, it seems was an unknown, and some of 
the people at the Avenue House now recall several things 
that smack of mystery. This man sent up no name to 
the lady; he came and went quietly, and on both occa- 
sions, seemed to be expected. One of the woman serv- 
ants remembers- that after the first interview with this 
stranger, the lady seemed annoyed and anxious, and after 
the secotid visit she seemed agitated and nervous. This 
man can 7iot be found . " 

"Can’t he?” said Carnes with a queer intonation. 

"He can’t be found,” looking at him fixedly. "But 
Sharp & Co., are looking for him. They have jumped at 
the bait; they think the dapper, middle-aged unknown 
is the guilty man.” 

Rufus Carnes threw back his head and indulged in a 
roar of laughter. 

"Good!” he cried, bringing down the palm of his hand 
upon the table between them. "Let them continue to think 
so. ” 

"So,” said Captain B — slowly, "it is as I suspected." 

"What did you suspect?” 

"That you could tell who this strange visitor was, and 
where to find him.” - 

"Who he was!" said Carnes. "You have used the right 
word. He was, but is not. He will never be seen again ; 
make yourself comfortable, Cap. Try a cigar. I’ll tell you 
all about it." 

And he did. 

Graphically; yet in detail, he went over the ground, 
omitting nothing. 


21 


310 


A SLENDER CLUB 


Martin and the advertisements; Mrs. Warham’s strange- 
ly told stories; Joseph La^rsen and his peculiar opera- 
tions; Patsy and his discoveries; Barney O’Calahan, 
and his plans; the decoy letter designed to bring Mrs. 
Warham and Larsen face to face; his visit to the cap- 
tain’s office, and the letter of dismissal there received, all 
passed in review. 

When all was told, Captain B — looked grave. 

“Carnes,” he said slowly, “this will be a complicated 
case. " 

“It will unravel itself," said the detective grimly, 
“once I get my hand on the throat of Mr. Joseph Larsen! “ 

Captain B — arose and stood before him. 

“So you think he is the murderer!” he said slowly. 

“I knowhe is the murderer, and I’ll find him or die 
trying!" 

“It looks as if you were right,” said Captain B — con- 
sulting his watch and beginning to move about the room, 
like a man suddenly grown restless. 

“At any rate it’s our first business to find this fellow. 
Heavens! how unfortunate that he should have so much 
the start of us! ” 

Carnes arose and began in his turn to be restless. He 
approached the captain and seemed about to speak, then 
closed his lips and walked to the nearest window. “What 
do you intend to do first?” he asked without turning his 
head. 

“Start the machinery, at all points. There’s enough 
to do! and the way to begin is to begin. Where’s that 
boy of 3^ours. ” 

"That’s what I want to know; if Patsy can’t help us 
forward it is because something has happened him. I set 
him upon Larsen, and he is not easily shaken off." 

“He’s been at the office, and he’s been here several 
times. They wouldn’t let him come up.” 


IN CONSULTATION 


311 


“Eh!” Carnes turned sharply; strode across the room, 
and pushed the bell-spring viciously. It brought a boy 
in hot haste 

“I want ro see the clerk,” said Carnes savagely, “send 
him up quick.” * 

In a very few moments the clerk appeared, smiling, 
yet somewhat apprehensive, 

"When was that boy of mine here last. Leech?” asked 
the detective. 

“The boy — a red-head?” 

“Of course,” impatiently. 

“He’s in the office now — 

“What!” 

f 

“Says he will stay there until we let him come up.” 

“By ! ” Carnes* impatience vented itself in 

profanity. “You can’t send him up too quick, do you hear! 
Wait, how often has he been here?” 

“Every da)^ since you were hurt, he — ” 

“Send him up,! send him up — quick!" he emphasized 
his words, quite unnecessarily, by an outward move- 
ment of the hands, and still further by slamming the 
door in the young man’s face. 

“Confound these doctors!” growled Carnes going back 
to his chair. “They might have let that boy see me." 

The flush upon his face djed out ; his hands, resting 
upon the arms of the invalid’s chair, began to tremble. 

The chief eyed him anxiously. 

“You’re overdoing, old man, "he said resuming his seat 
opposite Carnes. “You’ll bring yourself down again.” 

“No I woni! But I’ 11 be obliged if you’ll hand me that 
bottle and glass. _Wine? no — it’s some infernal bitters. 
Thank you, ah! come in" It was Patsy who entered, 
smiling broadly, yet ready to cry. 

“Well, my boy,” said Carnes cheerfully, “how are you? 
Shake! There, ” giving the lad’shand a hearty grip, “make 


312 


A SLENDER CLUE 


your bow to Captain B — . He knows all about us, and 
bring up your chair. You must give an account of your- 
self. ’’ 

Patsy^s face clouded. He glanced furtively at the 
^ captain, then appealingly at Carnes. The blood mounted 
to his temples and tears gathered in his eyes. He 
dropped his chin upon his breast and played uneasily 
with his battered cap. 

“If — if you please, boss," he faltered, “I — I’d rather 
tell you alone first. — I — I — can't tell anybody else!” 

Carnes and the captain exchanged glances. Then the 
latter said: 

“Let him have his way, Carnes. I’m pressed for time 
just now. Hear his report; I’ll look in again this even- 
ing." Then he turned to the boy. “Patsy," he said 
kindly, “you are a fine little fellow. I’ve heard about 
you and want to know you better. Tell your story, my 
man. I’ll take myself* off," and nodding to Carnes, and 
giving the boy’s head a friendly pat, he turned to go. 

“Stop," called Carnes, half rising then sinking back 
again. “Do you know what was done with her luggage?" 

“Eh?" 

“The woman’s trunk, these," glancing toward the 
newspapers, “say that it was left at the ‘Avenue’ — what 
became of it?” 

“Oh! yes, Colton took charge of it; it was examined I 
think, before the inquest, then formally secured and sent 
with the body.” 

“Umph! I wonder if Sharp had a chance at it!" 

The captain glanced at the boy, and then said after a 
momentary hesitation; 

“I think not— I neglected to mention — ahem — that 
two of his men left the city yesterday.” 

“Ah!" said Carnes. “Thank you.” When the door had 
closed behind the captain, Carnes swept the pile of 


IN CONSULTATION 


313 


newspapers from the table beside him to the floor, and 
drew up his chair. 

"Pat,” he said briskly, "go to my desk and bring me 
pencil and paper.” 

The boy obeyed him mutely, and then sat opposite, 
looking curiously at the bandaged head and the muscular 
hands whitened by illness and thinned by pain. With the 
exit of the chief of police his anxiety had vanished, and 
he now sat patiently attentive while*Carnes penciled 
.this message; 

"Richard Stanhope Upton." 

" Contrive to get a picture in a red velvet case, from Mrs. 
W — ^ s trunk. Young man with dark face, square jaw and wide 
mouth. Send or bring it. Don't let it fall to Sharp 6^ Co, 

"Carnes." 

Having written this he picked up one of the papers 
from the floor, to assure himself that he had remem- 
bered the name of the little town where Mr. Colton had 
sent the "keen" young detective: The home of missing 
Bertha Warham and her murdered step-mother. 

"Pat”, he said, while the pencil moved rapidly across 
the bottom of the sheet, "before we settle to business, 
run to the telegraph-office with this, give it to Bowen, 
mind, and here," searching his pockets for a piece of 
money, "pay it. Then hurry back.” 

When the boy had gone, Carnes walked to a dressing- 
case between two windows and surveyed his face in the 
glass. He looked tired and worn. 

"Pm growing old,” he said musingly, "I look it. A few 
thumps and the loss of a little blood have brought me 
to this." 

He sighed and turned from the mirror. His hands were 
shaking, his limbs trembled. He crossed the room and 


314 


A SLENDER CLUE 


threw himself heavily upon a couch at the foot of the 
bed. 

“I can’t understand myself,” he muttered. ”I never 
saw Bertha Warham, and I detested her step mother, 
and yet I feel toward that fellow Larsen a rooted and 
abiding hatred — a hatred born of instinct — I can’t un- 
derstand it.” 


CHAPTER XXXII 


HOW PATSY "backslid" 

"Now, Pat,” said Carnes, when the boy came breath- 
lessly back, and stood beside the couch upon which he 
lay, "drag up your chair, and let^s hear what you have 
to say. But first lock the door, and bring me that 
blanket. There, that’s better. Confound it! Pm as 
chilled and feeble as an old woman.” 

He drew the blanket about his shoulders, and ar- 
ranged the pillows underneath his head, with sundry 
shakes and punches, not especially indicative of his 
feeble condition ; and when Patsy had placed himself 
near him, sitting apprehensively upon the edge of his 
chair as if not quite certain of his ability to retain his 
position, he said; 

"Now, Pat. Out with it. What have you done with 
our friend?” 

Patsy’s face became gloomy, seeing which Carnes 
said : 

"You’ve had bad luck, I see. Out with it, my boy." 
We can’t always succeed.” 

He was markedly curt and abrupt with his equals in 
years and knowledge, but to this homeless, almost 
friendless gamin, and such as he, Rufus Carnes turned, 
always, his softer side, seldom showing impatience, 
and tempering his brusquerie with good humor. 

Patsy’s face reddened, and he fidgeted on his chair. 

“Cap’n," he said ruefully, "I — I’ve lost him;” he 
hung his head and two big tears stood in his eyes. 

315 


31G 


A BLENDER CLUE 


Carnes bit his lip, then said quietfy: 

"Tell me about it, Pat." 

"When I seen ye go out o’ the Galloway that mor- 
nin’ you know — ” 

"The morning I got this, you mean?" Carnes laid his 
hand upon the bandage about his head. 

"Yes. That mornin’, I was on hand as rigTt ^s 
could be. You hadn’t been gone long before his nibs 
was doin’ the “old racket, an’ me at his heels. He 
hadn’t only jest begun fairly, though, afore somethin’ 
turned up that SXvitched him off the track. He had jest 
stopped and begun a talkin’ to one o’ them blessed 
hackmen o’ his, when a woman come walkin’ along, 
slow like, as if she didn’t much care which way she 
went. She was a big woman with a good many fixins’ 
on — what’s the matter, Cap’n?” 

Carnes had raised hTmself suddenly and resting the 
weight of his body upon his right hand was gazing fixed- 
ly at the boy. He now dropped back upon his pillow, 
recalled to himself by the question, a look of vexation 
crossing his face. 

"Nothing, Pat," he said, "only Pm growing as 
excitable as a girl; if I don’t get out of this hole soon, 
Pll be in genuine hysterics. Go on — about the woman.” 

"She had a veil all over her face,” resumed Patsy, 
"an’ I didn’t git no' chance to see it. But I had plenty 
of time to notice her togs, for she stopped short, close 
to his nibs — " 

"Pat," said Carnes interrupting and giving his unof- 
fending pillow a vigorous punch, "this isn’t just the 
time for a lecture on slang. And Pm not just the chap 
to deliver it. I don’t object to some bits of slang— use 
them myself in fact, -but Ido detest that phrase you use. 
'His nilysf’ — hideous! Call the fellow anything you 
like, Pat, call him the Devil, but dod i call him, nor 
any one ‘his nibsd" 


HOIV PATSY BACKSLID 


B17 


Concerning his use or abuse of language, Patsy was 
not sensitive; so he grinned, said “all right, Cap’n,” and ' 
made another attempt. 

“O — the feller was so busy a-talkin’ to cabby that he 
didn’t see her, an’ she stood there a minit, an’ then 
piTlled up her veil and said ‘Joe,’ so loud I could hear 
it plain — ” 

“I thought you didn’t see her face, Pat,” broke in 
Carnes. 

“I didn’t!” retorted the boy showing a little temper. 
“I was square behind her, an’ she jest jerked the thing 
off her face for a minit an’ there let it go back ag’in.” 

“Oh!" murmured Carnes. “Go on, Pat, I wanted to 
catch you napping, but I see you know what -you’re talk- 
ing abput.” 

Patsy fixed his eye somewhat severely upon the face 
of his patron and said: ' 

“If you had chased them two as long as I did, and 
as fur, them a-ridin’ an’ you on foot, I reckon you’d 
be apt to know somethin’ about it yourself." 

“That’s so, Pat,” said Carnes soothingly. “Go on, 
that’s a good fellow; give us particulars. I won’t inter- 
rupt again." 

Patsy made a last effort to appear unappeased. He 
was used to these tilts with his eccentric task-master, 
and knew that he had come off victor for the time. So 
he resumed his narrative gravely: 

“When she said <Joe,’in a kind of sharp, anxious way, 
as if she felt most afraid of him, he turned around quick 
as a cat, lookin’ scairt like. When he seen who it was, 
he got awful black an’ ugly in the face He’s a kind 
o’ loggy, slow-movin’ feller, but he jest showed his 
wrong side I/ien in a minit. He said somethin’ in her 
ear, kind o’ sharp and hissin’, and then said somethin’ 
to the cabby. The next minit he was bundlin’ her in- 


A SLENDER CLUE 


‘SIS 

ter the carriage an’ scramblin’ in after her, an’ away 
they went.” 

He paused now and waited for comment, but none 
came. 

Carnes was looking at him intently, his face revealing 
nothing of his thoughts. 

"I chased that carriage,” said Patsy impressively, 
“till 1 couldn’t run no more. It was right in the heat 
o’ the mornin’, and I like to got nabbed more nor once 
by the bobs as I raced past. A confounded little nig 
with papers set up a ‘stop thief’ howl; I just took 
time to hit him one left-hander and on I scooted. Byrne 
by, they began to go slower, and I was mighty glad of 
it; I couldn’t a’ stood much more; I’d begun to 
wonder, as I wasrunnin’, if the feller wasn’t forgettrn’ his 
business; but pr,etty soon after the cabby slowed up; he 
begun to work round back toward the place he started 
from, an’ then he stopped an’ the woman an’ our man 
got out. Cabby drove away, an’ the man an’ woman 
walked along talkin’ pretty earnest, but mighty careful 
not to talk loud. All at once they stopped at a corner, 
and after a little more talk the man went one way and 
she went another, only after he’d started off she turned 
around and looked after him as if she had forgot some- 
thin’ or didn’t want him to go — ” 

“Pat,” said Carnes suddenly, “this corner where they 
separated, was it far from the Avenue House? You 
know the place don’t you?” 

"I know it well enough.” Patsy began to look troub- 
led. “The corner where our man left her was in plain 
sight of the Avenue House, two blocks away." 

"Go on, Pat.” 

"When I seen her start, she went right toward the 
Ayenue. I trotted after our man. He was walkin’ 
lively an’ he brought up at the office, He got 


HOIV PATSY ^^BACKSLID 


319 


something from the chap at the winder, and he was in 
hot haste to read it; I had got near enough to see his 
hand shake when he stopped right outside the door and 
‘tore the letter open. All at once he turned pale as any 
spook, an’ give a kind of jump as if somethin’ bit him. 
Then he started off, lookin’ kind a wild like, walkin’ fast 
and then slackin’ and goin’ slow. He didn’t seem to 
know where to go at first; he’d walk one way an’ then 
he’d turn an’ walk another; byme by he whirled 
round and walked back to the Galloway, an’ then I got 
time to take a breath — ” 

"Take a breath now, Pat, and then tell me as nearly 
as you can what time it was when the man and woman 
parted at the corner." 

"It was early," said the boy after a moment’s thought. 
Not more than half-past ten, I should say." 

"Umph," muttered Carnes; "that explains it." 

"Hu’h!" 

"I was talking to myself, Pat; don’t mind me. What 
did the fellow do next?" 

"Eat his dinner I reckon," grinned Patsy. "Anyway 
’twas time. He didn’t show outside for a good while; 
I chanced a little on it anyway, an’ got a snack, an’ my 
blackin’ kit. My feet was swelled with runnin’ and I 
got off my shoes and give ’em a rest. I swapped tops 
with another boy that I knew first-rate, an’ got a cap 
that I could pull clear down to the back of my neck, 
then I turned my coat wrong side nut; I thought I 
might be gitten’ kind o’ conspicious round that quarter, 
then I rubbed some dust onto my face. After quite a 
long rest, the feller came out from the Galloway, an’ 
I guess he begun to feel conspicious too, for he was 
buttoned up in a long-tailed brown duster an’ had a 
different hat onto his head. This time he struck straight 
out for the Avenue House, but instead of. goin’ in, he 


320 


A SLENDER CLUE 


crossed over an’ walked up an’ down on t’other side of 
the street, lookin’ up at the winders. Pretty soon out 
come the woman agin with her veil over her face, and 
they met at the corner and walked away slow, an’ talkin’ 
pretty fast. They didn’t go fur but seemed to agree upon 
somethin’. Then she went back to her hotel, an’ he 
went to his’n. Then I made tracks fer here, an’ you 
was lyin’ there lookin’ as good as dead, an’ they wouldn’t 
let me in.” 

His face clouded at the remembrance, and Carnes put 
out a hand and patted his knee gently. 

“Poor old Pat,” he said soothingly; “they didn’t know 
that you were my right-hand man.” 

The boy smiled and drew* his hand across his e3^es. 

“You better believe I was bothered,” he went on. 
“But I knew you was on the square with Captain B — , 
so I went to his quarters; but he was gone too. Then I 
was puzzled worse than ever, but I says, to myself, 
Patsy, you’ve got to hold the fort, an’ you’d better 
begin. ” 

Here Patsy paused and looked ruefully down at the 
carpet, but Carnes was now too anxious and too deeply 
interested to interrupt. 

Patsy’s eyes traveled from the carpet to a chair, from 
the chair to the table, then to the ceiling, and finally 
Carnes said: 

“You decided to hold the fort, eh? I didn’t know that 
you were acquainted with Mr. Sankey. Did you — a — 
hold the fort Pat?” 

“No,” said the boy dropping his gaze from the ceil- 
ing to the face of his interlocutor, “I — I backslid." 
And then he hurriedly related his adventures of the 
following day, telling how Larsen had gone his usual 
round among the hackmen, in the morning; how he had 
followed him, after dinner, and overheard his inquiries 


HOIV PATSY ^^BACKSLID'* 


321 


about Carnes in the office below, and how at last, in 
spite of his efforts Larsen had escaped him, aided by 
the crowd, and the growing darkness, vanishing utterly 
from that moment. 

“Pve tried my best;” he concluded; "every day Pve 
scoured the streets, Pve watched the hackmen, and the 
folks at the stalls. He ain’t never been near none of 
’em. Pve hung about the theaters and hotels, and 
depots, but it’s goin’ to take more than me to find him 
— specially now.” 

“Why now. Patsy.” 

Ihe boy leaned forward and spoke in a half-whisper: 

“The next day,” he said, I was passin’ by the 
morgue; there was a crowd there a-lookin’ at a dead 
woman as they’d jest found in some alley — an* I went in 
an’ took a look with the rest. I didn’t know her face 
but I was sure I had seen the clothes. ’Twas the same 
thing, all ruffly an’ kind o’ green, the color of scum on 
the puddles down in the low river streets. I didn’t dare 
say a word, but I hung round the Avenue House till I 
made out she was’nt there — ” 

"Who, Pat?” 

“Why her, that woman that met our feller, and went 
off in the carriage with him. And then the next day it 
came out that she were the woman that had been stop- 
ping at the Avenue, an’ her name an’ all. Ain’t ye heard 
about it. Cap?” 

Carnes turned upon his couch and uttered a sigh of 
weariness. “Yes, Pve heard about it, boy. Pve heard too 
much, and not enough. Pat, have you told anyone that 
you had seen this woman?” • 

"Me!" with a flash of indignation, "no sir. / ain’t 
a fool.” 

"That’s so, Pat. And now let me tell you this: there’s 
going to be hot work before we find our man again, and 


B22 


A SLENDER. CLUE 


I depend upon you to help us out. Go to your roost, 
boy, and to-morrow present yourself bright and early 
ready for a hard day’s vvork Keep your mouth shut and 
your eyes open. Good boy!” 

That night, before he slept, Rufus Carnes told Patsy’s 
story to the chief of police and together they arranged a 
plan of action, which left little to be accomplished, in 
the line of these researches, by Messrs. Sharp & Co., 
and his Honor the Mayor. 

They had not agreed upon all points; the chief of 
police was essentially practical. He theorized little, 
and indulged in no feats of foresight. He measured 
his ground carefully, set his foot down firmly, and stud- 
ied his game as he stalked it. 

Not so Rufus Carnes; he theorized largely, and was 
a firm believer in "impressions.” It was unsafe to pre- 
suppose a man’s actions from his characteristics, he ar- 
gued. No man knows what he himself will be capable of, 
under given circumstances, until the circumstance has 
tried him. The rule of “cause and effect” was worth 
little when applied to human beings. The chief scoffed 
at some of his theories, and called them vagaries, 
and frowned down some of his propositions, as impracti- 
cable; but he went away at last to put into execution 
just what Carnes had planned. For he knew that in 
spite of his “theories and far fetched ideas,” Carnes, when 
in action, was sound in judgment, quick to conceive, 
swift to execute, this “impression” seldom leading 
him astray. 

Carnes pondered long, when late in the evening he 
found himself filone, he was beginning to feel strangely 
interested in the complication he was studying. 

To the chief of police, the mystery presented itself in 
its simplest phase, viz: To find the murderer of 
Lucretia Warham. To Carnes it was complex, and 


HOIV PATSY BACKS LID 


323 


involved in its meshes, the fate of Bertha Wariiam 
and the mystery which began with her disappearance, 
and ended, if it were ended, in the deatli of her father’s 
wife. It was long after midnight when Carnes, worn out 
with the day’s fatigues, fell asleep, to dream that he stood 
upon a frightful eminence and looked down upon rugged 
rocks jutting out from among thorns and brambles, dag- 
ger-pointed and hideous, and ending in a sea of black, 
foam-capped waters far below, and to feel himself pushed 
from that dreadful height, with the sound of hoarse 
laughter in his ears, and the faces of Joseph Larsen and 
the blonde and delicate ex-convict whom he had known in 
prison as "No. 36", looking mockingly down upon him, 
as, torn and pierced by the briers and rocks, he sank 
beneath the black waters. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


A MODERN INQUISITION 

“The way to begin, is to begin,” Carnes had said sen- 
tentiously to the chief of police, and, on the following 
morning, the latter officer opened his batteries in this 
wise: 

While the morning was quite fresh, a “hackman" of 
sinister countenance, sitting askew upon his box, yawn- 
ing, and looking lazily about for a possible fare, waited, 
spider-like, at the curbstone in front of a huge railway 
station, where various roads “terminated” with much 
rumble and roar. - 

The fellow was a late bird, as well as an early one, 
and his wits may have been still slumbering, or less 
than half-awakened, when an innocent-looking person, 
wearing “countryfied” garments and carrying a black and 
shining valise, approached him timidly, and asked, quite 
respectfully, and in a hushed voice: — “Won’t you — please 
be so kind as to kerry me to the court-house, to see the 
chief of police?” 

The hackman gave the customary reply, in ' the cus- 
tomary manner, and so strong is the force of habit, he had 
uncoiled himself to scramble down and open the car- 
riage-door, when the stranger began to clamber up to 
the box with some difficulty, owing to the black valise, 
which he dragged up after him. 

“Ye might as well ’ave got inside,” said the hackman 
surlily, and gathering up his reins. 

324 


^ A MODERN INQUISITION 


325 


“Might I?” the country- man peered down curiously. 
“Wal, never mind, now. Jest take me to where I can 
see the chief of police, quick; I — I’m awful anxious." 

The driver favored him with a long, steady stare, and 
then whipped his horses to a rapid trot. 

Arrived at the chief’s head quarters, he drew up, not 
at the entrance, but a little below it. Two policemen 
were standing near the stone steps. 

“There’s yer place," said the driver to his fare, “up 
them steps, where ye see the p’licemen; ye can git 
down here.." 

“As the man began to fumble in his pockets, in search 
of money, to pa}^ his fare, the two policemen saun- 
tered toward them, carelessly. “Hurry up," said the 
driver, “I want to ketch that next train." 

“I guess," said the country-man, beginning to clamber 
down, with a grin upon his face, and seeming to have 
forgotten his black valise, “I guess ye’d better come 
down, too, and come into the ^court-house’ a bit. 
Hadn’t he, boys?" 

“I reckon he had," said one of' the ‘boys,’ in blue 
coats, taking the horses by the bits as he spoke. 

“I’m blest if he I,” said the other “boy", 

darting swiftly to the side of the carriage, nearest the 
driver. ‘Will you walk into my parlor, said the — ’" 

This ancient bit of pleasantry was drowned by a 
fusilade of oaths from the driver, who sprang up and 
clapped a hand upon his hip. 

“Oh, Pve got that,” said his late fare blandly, “come 
down, come dozvn- " 

This invitation, promptly repeated by the two police- 
men, had its effect upon the hackman — he came down, 
and after a short parley, and a shorter struggle, was 
led into the presence of the* chief of police. 

The prisoner was a sullen fellow, and having been 


326 


A SLENDER CLUE 


persuaded into the august presence, by the force of 
numbers, he bore himself with somber dignity, and con- 
descended to no remonstrance or argument, only bestow- 
ing occasional sinister glances upon his late fare, who 
held in his hand the revolver he had so dextrously trans- 
fered from cabby’s pocket to his own possession. 

Having disposed of the preliminaries — name, age, 
residence, occupation, etc, — the chief leaned back in 
his elbow-chair, and said with grave politeness: 

"I am sorry to trouble you, my friend, but I very much 
want to see a photograph, which you carry in your pock- 
et; so if — ” 

The prisoner’s dignity abated somewhat a trio of 
profane adjectives dropped from his lips, his hand went 
up to his breast, and suddenly went down again. 

"I ain’t got — ” he began, then halted, and ended with 
— "I dunno what you mean!" 

"I was about to say," resumed the chief, "that, our 
time being limited, unless you favor me with a sight of 
this picture without parley, I shall have you searched." 

The prisoner started and looked hastily about him. 

The man in the rustic toilet was smiling blandly, and 
moving gently toward him. The prisoner moved a pace 
forward. 

"I don’t know what ye mean, yer honor. I ain’t got 
no pictures, so help .me — ’ 

"Take care, my friend!" 

"I tell ye, ye’ve made a mistake — ye’ve got the 
wrong man! " 

"Do you see that screen in the corner?" said the 
chief, sharply. 

The fellow looked about him. 

"Yes, yer honor." 

"Just turn and face it. Halt! that’s near enough. 
Felix." 


A MODERN INQUISITION 


327 


The man, who still held the prisoner’s revolver, 
answered, “Yes sir." 

The chief nodded, and Felix moved toward the pris- 
oner. 

“Now," said the chief," with his eyes upon the 
screen — “Do you see him, Pat?" 

“Yes sir," came a boyish voice from the sheltered cor- 
ner. 

“Do you know him?" 

“Yes, sir.".. The tone very positive. 

“How often have you seen him?" 

“Every da}^ for two weeks." 

The prisoner let fall another oath and sprang toward 
the screen. But Felix and the revolver were before 
him. 

“There’ll be a hack-dri veer’s funeral to-morrow if you 
don’t look lively," said Felix, no longer smiling. 

“Give him a chair in front here," said the chief. 

“I want to see who’s behind that thing," growled the 
prisoner. 

“You’d better go and sit down," said Felix signifi- 
cantly, and one of the blue-coats having placed a chair 
before the desk where the chief sat, the two now turned 
toward the prisoi^er, and in a moment he was sitting 
sulkily under the eye of Captain B — . 

“Now," resumed the captain, “you have in your pocket 
the picture of a young woman; it was given to you on 
Wednesday, May the ii,thbya man whom you saw two 
or three times after, always in the morning. You have 
not seen him since Saturday, the 14th. That man is a 
criminal; if you don’t want to come to grief as his ac- 
complice you will hand over that picture and make a 
clean breast of it. If yon do this we shall let you go 
as soon as we have satisfied ourselves that you have told 


m 


A SLENDER CLUE 


the truth; all of it. If you refuse we shall shut you up 
and hold you as the accomplice of a — murderer.” 

The fellow was startled, he paled and then reddened. 
But his blood was up; at last he knew his ground. 

“Ye cant’ do it!” he said defiantly, "ye can’t shut me 
up. I ain’t a fool.” 

The corner of Captain B — ’s mouth took a downward 
curve. He turned half round in his chair, as if turning 
his back upon the prisoner and all connected with him, 
and said with a wave of the hand toward the “boys: ” 

“Take that fellow and lock him up, just to convince 
him that he is a fool; and keep him locked up until he 
becomes wiser.” 

The prisoner’s countenance fell. “What do ye want 
me to tell?” he asked, with the air of a man beaten at 
his own game. 

“You know very well,” the chief said sternly. “I ad- 
vise you not to waste any more of my time.” 

The prisoner fumbled in his pocket, and finally drew 
forth a handful of soiled letters, play-bills and what 
appeared to be the battered fragment of a clown’s song- 
book; from this collection he chose a dingy envelope, 
blank and unsealed, and half-rising, proffered it to the 
chief of police, who bent forward to receive it, and 
quickly disclosed its contents — the photograph of the 
missing girl, Bertha Warham. 

“So,” said Captain B — , “number one of the series 
turns up! tell us about it my man.” 

The prisoner rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 

“Pm tryin’ to remember,” he began. 

“Let me help your memory; it was a big, dark-faced 
fellow — " 

“That’s so,” assented the prisoner. “I had been to 
the train and was lookin’ around among the markets 
thinkin’ I might hit a fare — " 


A MODERN INQUISITION 


329 


“Never mind what you were doing or thinking; just 
give me your interview with the man who gave you this,” 
tapping the photograph which he held in his hand. 
“Time’s flying.” 

“Well then, I was settin’ on my box, when this fellow 
came up an’ stood close by the carriage. I didn’t 
notice him much at first but he stood there so long that 
finally I looked down an’ see he was givin’ me an’ my 
rig a pretty good lookin’ over. Then I squares round 
an’ says, ‘Have a carriage, sur?’ He kind o’ shook his 
head an’ then he says — ‘Come down here, 1 want to speak 
to ye.’ I jumped down an’ then he commenced kind o’ 
talkin round, an’ the upshot of it was, he wanted to know 
about where I went, if I had a regular beat, an’ if I 
was liable to run across persons that was strangers in 
the city. He said it seemed to him as if anyone in 
my business was purty apt, in runnin’ to an’ from depots 
an’ hotels an’ theaters an’ the like, to see strangers, es- 
pecially wimmen, if they was kind o’ frisky and went 
about much. I told him that I s’posed I was as likely as 
anybody to run across such a person, an’ then he told 
me that he had lost a sister; she had run away from 
home, and he had reason to think she was in the city. 
She was hansum an’ kind o’ fly away, he said, an’ his 
idea was that if some one only watched long enough an’ 
sharp enough, they’d find her some day among the 
theaters or other gay places, or maybe goin’ an’ cornin’ 
on the cars. Then he wound up by askin’ me would I 
try my hand at findin’ the. gal; I wouldn’t need to go 
out of my way, but jest to keep an’ eye open, an’ when 
I seen the gal jest to foller her, an find out where she 
stayed, an’ then let him know." 

“How?” queried Captain B — , as the prisoner paused 
here. “How were you to let him know?” 

“He didn’t give no name, nor tell me where he lived. 


330 


A SLENDER CLUE 


I was to find out where the girl went, and then carry 
the news to Old Mother Riggs, the old woman that 
keeps an apple-stand near the new theater — he would go 
there, or hear from her, twice a day.” 

"Well!” said Captain B — , somewhat impatiently, 
and with a fine sarcasm that was totally lost upon his 
prisoner — “Of course you promised to do all this?” 

“Why, yes. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t.” 

"And of course,” went on the captain, “you did it 
gratuitously — for humanity’s sake.” 

The fellow looked perplexed, his question had flown 
too high. 

"How much did he pay you?” jerked the captain, un- 
consciously improving his English. 

"Umph!” sniffed the other as if this were the v/orst 
feature of the case. “He only give ten dollars to begin 
with, but he promised big pay if I found the girl. The 
next day he come round and give me the picture to help 
me out.” 

“Oh!” ejaculated the chief of police, “the ?iext day! 
then we are wrong in our dates! But let that pass. 
How did you succeed?” 

"Umph! he came around almost every morning, alwaj^s 
askin’ the same questions, as if he was afraid I’d give 
out if he didn’t keep an eye on me. An’ then all at 
once he was missin’. I hain’t seen nor heard from him 
in a-most a week.” 

"And the girl?” 

"Oh I ain’t seen anything that even looked like her!” 

The chief of police opened a ledger, or what appeared 
to be one, unfolded some papers, opened a drawer, 
looked into it and shut it with a sharp click. At that 
moment some one knocked at the office-door. 

In obedience to a nod from his superior, Felix opened 
it half way, put his head out and listened to something 


A MODERN INQUISITION 


331 


said in a low tone by a blue-coated person in the corri- 
dor. Then he closed the door. 

“Two of them,” answered Felix with a grin. 

“Oh! wait a moment.” 

Then he turned and addressed his captive. 

“Now sir, listen to me,” he said sternly. “lam going 
to give you a chance to help, instead of hindering the 
police. There, you need not trouble yourself — I know all 
about it. I know the trade - you carry on by daylight 
and after dark^ and I know which division of the twenty- 
four hours brings you the most money. I’m going to 
have you well-looked-after; you need it. And now mark 
this: If this man should happen to turn up again, as he 
may, and if he comes to you, do you bring the news to 
me straightway; don’t let grass grow under your feet, 
or* your horses. You know how to do it well enough; 

make an appointment with him and then come to me. 
Another thing: if you should happen to see a face like^ 
this,” holding up the photograph “let us hear of that 
too. The better you serve us the better it will be for 
you; above all keep a very close mouth about this busi- 
ness; you are likely to get into trouble if you don’t; and 
still more: keep to your old beats; don’t make any 
changes, or try any dodges. I want you where I can find 
you at any moment, and no harm shall comt? to you so 
long as you deal squarely with us. But if you make any 
queer moves or happen to be missing some morning 
from your regular stand, you’ll be hunted up very sud- 
denly, and — I’m afraid you won’t like wh^t will hap- 
pen next. See him out, Felix, and give him back his 
gun.” 

When Felix went out with his charge the blue-coated 
messenger who had waited without showed himself in 
the office doorway, hat in hand. 


332 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"We have brought in two of the fellows," he said, 
addressing the chief. 

"Good," the latter said briskly. 

"Bring them on; let’s get this business oh our hands. 
Bring them on — one at a time of course." 

Then he took up the photograph of Bertha Warham, 
and thrust it into a drawer. 

Nothing new was to be obtained from the latest two 
captures, and they were turned adrift much as was the 
first; and then the old apple-woman was brought before 
him. 

She was easily dealt with. She had been approached 
by a young man "with an ugly scowlin’ face, black eyes 
and hair, and as gawky as a spring gander,” she averred. 
He had asked her to act the part of postmistress for 
him, to receive such messages as might be brought hej: 
for himself, and deliver them to him duly at a conven- 
ient corner where he would await her daily at a fixed 
ttour. He would pay her well, and "tliat was all there 
was about it, •’cept that sl]e hadn’t had nary message for 
him, nor yet set an eye on him, since nigh a week ago, 
the very blessed day afore that awful murder in thft 
North-side alley.” 

"It looks as if Carnes were right,” mused Captain 
B — . "The fellow is seen by hackmen, apple-woman, 
and this boy Pat, the day before the murder, and is not 
seen by anyone^ so far as heard from‘, since." 

"There’s one thing* I don’t quite understand," he said 
later to his favorite Felix. "And that is why Carnes has 
said nothing about sending someone to Upton to hunt 
up information about this fellow that he’s so sure killed 
Mrs. Warivim— this Larsen. I put that off on purpose 
to get his ideas about it. And he never thought of it, 
apparently. " 

"Apparently?" repeated Felix. "You never can tell 


A MODERN INQUISITION 333 

where to find Rufe Carnes. But I’ll bet a white hat he 
ain’t asleep." 

The chief laughed. 

"Anyway,” went on Felix, "you haven’t let much grass 
grow between here and Upton. The woman had lain at 
the morgue far into the second day before she was 
seen and identified by Colton. Then there was the delay 
of the inquest in order to get witnesses. It was five days 
before the hod5i,got to Upton. You don’t mean to say 
that one of our men didn’t go with it?" 

"No, I don’t. But I did not tell Carnes that.” 

"Well!” commented Felix. "Perhaps I’m speaking out 
of turn. Cap, but you’ll remember that I was present at 
your interview with Mr. Colton and I heard him say that 
Dick Stanhope was in Upton.” 

"True.” 

"Well, Carnes knows that?” 

"Yes.” 

‘ Then I’ll wager he feels as safe about Upton matters 
as if he were there in person. He thinks Dick was a de- 
tective before the world was made.” 

Captain B — laughed again. 

"Felix, you have a long head, if it is young. If I 
did not need you here so much I would send you to Up- 
ton to spy out the land, but — ” 

"Oh, don’t mention it. Cap.” The young fellow got up 
and prepared to go out. "I know very well that you’ve 
vowed to the governor that I shan’t be sent into unsafe 
work this year. It’s all right. Cap, and I shan’t quarrel 
with the governor, only — you may both make up vour 
minds to this; I’m hereto stay." 

"George! But I begin to believe you, boy," and the 
captain sent a friendly smile after the retiring figure of 
the handsomest and youngest man upon his private force. 

Two days have elapsed since the chief of police began 


334 


A SLENDER CLUB 


his siege upon the hack-drivers, and during these two 
days he has moved rapidly, aided by Felix and others 
of his force, each skillful in his degree, and all quite 
trustworthy. 

Carnes meanwhile has not yet crossed the threshold of 
his room, but if his hands have been idle his brain has 
been busy. Taking such facts as he had at hand con- 
cerning the mystery of Mrs. Warham's murder, Bertha 
Warham’s dissappearance, and the strange conduct of 
Joseph Larsen, now vanished, as his vantage ground, 
he has let his thoughts go out in many directions, 
to return, laden with strange theories, fancies, and 
possibilites, to the point from whence they started. 
He has made copious notes too, contrary to his usual 
custom, and although they might seem, to other eyes 
than his, a strange jumble, he has preserved them, again 
in opposition to his habit, and seems to derive a sort of 
satisfaction from an occasional glance at their varied 
and characteristic contents. 

These “notes, ” scribbled close and packed into small 
space among the leaves of a tiny black diary, lie upon 
the table opposite the captain, and Carnes himself, 
his head divested, for the first time, of patch and band- 
age, sits with his chair drawn squarely up to the table, 
upon which his elbows rest, looking across at his vis a 
vis, somewhat paler and thinner than his usual wont, 
and showing in his occasional movements a little less 
than his usual strength, but otherwise himself again. In 
a few days more, the pallor and weakness too, will be 
gone, and then he will have for a reminder of this epi- 
sode of illness only two livid scars upon temple and 
cheek, which he will carry to his dying day. 

“My point of view,” said Carnes, “is clearly defined; 
and, if you go in for expansiveness, it wouldn’t suit. It 
consists of an established fact (established in my mind 


A MODERN INQUISITION 


335 


of course) and two propositions. Thus, fact foremost: 
Joseph Larsen killed Mrs. Warham. First proposition: 
Where to find said Joseph Larsen? second ditto, how to 
convict him when found. You see,” taking up the diary 
and toying with it absently, ‘‘my outlook is not spa- 
cious; it is literally a pomt." 

“Yes,” assented Captain B — , ‘‘and like all other 
‘points,’ you travel from it in any direction — down- 
hill.” 

Carnes uttered a short laugh. 

‘‘And you think,” he said, “that success generally lies 
at the top?” 

‘I think that there may not be much difference, in 
the long run, in working from an idea, and working 
toward it. Now I grant that, from our stand point, 
your theory seems the m.ost probable, but I have heard 
you say more times than once — ” 

“It’s safe to distrust that which seems most probable, ” 
broke in Carnes impatiently. “Oh yes. You’ve heard me 
say that^ and we’ve both heard somebody else say that 
‘the exception proves the rule.’ Now I don’t base my 
belief upon this most probable theory because it is the 
most probable, but because my feelings go with it.” 

“Your feelings!” 

“Yes, feelings, instinct, impressions. If Patsy had 
not made his discoveries; if to my knowledge Larson 
had not met Mrs. Warham; if I had not been aware of 
their common search and common interests, but had 
known merely that they were both in the city, and they 
knew each other, I should still believe Larsen the guilty 
man. But if Patsy had net been a witness to their meet- 
ing and I supposed that my note, sent to the ‘Owl’, had 
been the cause of their coming together, I should feel 
that it was hand that had loosed the blood-hound and 
turned him upon that unfortunate woman.” 


336 


A SLENDER CLUB 


"Pshaw!" said the chief with an elastic move of his 
hand. "Your sickness has made you fanciful; leave 'in- 
stinct’ to animals, ‘feelings’ to women, and 'impressions’ 
to mediums. Let’s get to business.” 

"As soon as you please," replied Carnes composedly. 
"All the same I thank my stars that it was not my decoy 
note that brought that dead woman and the scoundrel 
Larsen face to face." He removed his elbows from the 
table and leaned back in his chair. "You made a good 
beginning with the hackman and fakirs," he said; "you’ ve 
got a link if you ever get a chain to match it, but it don’t 
help us much to find Larsen, nor to understand his mo- 
tives. " 

The chief of police laughed a short crisp laugh full of 
meaning, and a gleam of covert amusement lingered in 
his eyes and about the corners of his mouth as he thrust 
one hand into a breast pocket and said: 

"Perhaps it will shake 3^ou in your security to know 
that the finger of suspicion, a gloved finger, has already 
pointed out another, possible — assassin. I think I hinted 
at this before." 

He drew a letter from the pocket and held it up be- 
tween his thumb and forefinger. 

‘This," he said, shaking the missive gentty, “came 
to me three days ago; as you will see by the post- 
mark it has been delayed, in some of those cross road 
postoffices through which it has traveled, more than a 
week — almost two. "Read it," and he tossed the letter 
across the table. 

Carnes caught it deftly, opened it and glanced at the 
contents; then he started slightly, looked up, looked, 
down again, and without speaking read the two written 
pages from beginning to end. 

It was a laboriously scrawled missive signed "One Who 
Knows" and it informed the chief of police that if he 


/f MODERN INQUISITION 


337 


desired to find the murderer of Mrs. Warham he would 
do well to search for the dapper middle-aged person 
who had twice called upon that lady at the Avenue 
House. This man, so said the writer, had made an effort 
to extort money from Mrs Warham by professing to be 
able to help her in her search for her step-daughter, and 
had proposed to take her to a place in the city where, he 
assured her, she might hear important news of the miss- 
ing girl. The writer followed up these statements with a 
minute and very accurate description of Carnes as he 
had appeared, when calling upon Mrs. Warham at the 
Avenue House, and closed with the supposition that, 
tempted by a lavish display of gold and /'jewelry, “ he 
had decoyed his victim into a portion of the city which 
he knew to be deserted at night, and there killed and 
robbed her. 

All this was set forth in a rambling, awkward way, and 
the attempt to disguise both penmanship and personality 
was evident. 

Captain B — seemed inclined to treat it lightly, as a 
rather absurd joke at Carnes expense, and nothing more 
serious, but Carnes when he had perused it, threw it upon 
the table and sat looking upon it with frowning brow. 

“This,” ^id the Captain as he stretched out his hand 
to take the letter and restore it to its envelope, "is one 
of the bright results of this precious, so-called, freedom 
of the press; some idiot about that hotel, a servant or 
perhaps a guest, happened to see you when you visited 
that woman; this description of you proves that they 
were interested, and observant. They have followed up 
the affair in the newspapers, letting their imagination 
run riot until this,” tossing the letter down upon the 
table, “is the result. I dare say the person who wrote 
this has laid awake nights to study it out, and is going^ 
about at this moment looking upon himself in the light 


338 


A SLENDER CLUE 


of a public benefactor. No doubt he has looked to see 
it appear in the newspapers; and he may be denouncing 
me at this moment, as a lukewarm official who will per- 
haps connive at the escape of this guilty middle-aged 
party. Cranks! sensation hunters, they are born, bred and 
nourished by the ‘family’ newspapers. Why, if that 
letter had fallen into the hands of a reporter it would 
have furnished matter for a leader, and three or four 
columns, long ago." 

"That sort of talk sounds like a chapter out of my 
book," said Carnes with a short laugh. "So far as the 
newspapers are concerned we agree perfectly. But 
you’re wrong about this letter.’’ 

"Wrong! How?" 

"Wrong as to its origin; Joseph Larsen wrote that 
letter. " 

Captain B — favored him with a questioning stare. 

"You don’t agree with me," said Carnes smiling 
slightly. "Come, we’ll put it to the test, and it can’t 
be done too soon. Haven’t I heard 3^ou say that one of 
your men was an expert at handwriting?" 

"Yes, Felix." 

"Weil, give him this letter, or a part of it, and send 
him to the Galloway House. Let him get at tlfe register. 
Larsen is registered there as Johi Larkins ; then send 
him to the other houses where Larsen has been. I’ll give 
you the names and dates. If he don’t say that this letter 
and the registered name was witten by the same hand. I’ll 
believe anything you reccomend. Do it?" 

' I will," said the chief, "you may be right and I 
wrong. I’ll do it at once. Felix is the man, too." 

"Wait though," said Carnes with a grin. "There’s an- 
other name on the Galloway register, same page, name 
of another missing man. ITl write a few lines and you 
give him both. If he understands his business he can 


A MODERN INQUISITION 


380 


convince us both. If he can identify my handwri ting up- 
on that ledger, you and I will be satisfied with whatever 
he says about the other. But weVe lost valuable time 
if this letter was sent by Larsen, and Pm convinced 
that it was; we’ve lost a rare chance.” 

"That’s true,” said the chief, and then he started up 
suddenly, "Why,” he said, "here’s a pretty good test. If 
that thing was written by some crank who reads the 
newspapers, he has probably written a similar letter to 
Sharp; we must find out about that.” 

"Umph! ” sniffed Carnes. "If Sharp had received such 
a letter it would have made meat for the reporters long 
before this. It’s one of his stock tricks, to exploit these 
matters. " 

‘And yet,” said the chief half to himself, “Sharp and 
his men have done some good things.” 

"Of course they have!” said Carnes testily. "I don’t 
quarrel with their work, but wuth their method. They 
might rest on their merits, but they won’t. They must 
keep up a hue and cry of sensationalism,” his voice rising. 
"Now / am going to predict — come in!” 

Some one was tapping sharply at the door, and the sud- 
den fall of his voice, as Carnes uttered these two last 
words, accompanied as it was b}'’ as sudden a collapse 
of pose and gesture, struck both orator and auditor as 
extremely absurd, and the new-comer as he entered the 
room was greeted by two faces turned toward him and 
smiling troadly. Then their momentary amusement be- 
came a gleam of welcome, and both men sprang to their 
feet. 

"Dick!” cried Carnes, "Dick Stanhope! You’re the 
very man we want!” 

"And you are the very man / want,” said Stanhope as 
he extended a hand to each; "both of you. The very 
men! ” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


CHIEFS IN COUNCIL ^ 

There were many things to be said by way of greeting. 
Dick Stanhope was the one being in all the world, for 
whom Carnes professed an abiding friendship. And 
this regard, the handsome young fellow, almost as much 
alone in the world as Carnes himself, returned with a 
frank affection. 

He had heard little news from the city during his ab- 
sence, except such as pertained to the case upon which 
his energies were bent, and he was quick to note the 
‘change in his friend, his pallor, and the scars, scarcely 
healed. 

But each of the three men were intent upon the same 
object, and each was anxious to begin upon the subject, 
which was of mutual interest. So the door was locked, 
and secure against intruders, the three drew close to- 
gether around the table, and Stanhope, looking from 
one to the other as he spoke, began: 

‘T suppose you both know where I have been?" 

Both his listeners nodded. 

"Colton has told me of his business with yoh, Captain 
B — , so I understand your connection with this affair; 
but this individual," with a movement of the hand to- 
ward Carnes, "seems to have gotten his nose into the 
business, too. I don’t understand that." 

"Umph!" grunted Carnes. "More’s the pity! I shall 
have to waste so much more of my precious breath on 
you. My nose is in it. It’s in with a vengeance! And 

340 


CHIEFS IN COUNCIL 


341 


now before we go farther, let me ask just what want 
of us? You said — ” 

I said thar I wanted you both; your co-operation, 
your advice; and now,” thrusting a hand into his breast, 
and bringing forth a large, flat, square packet, “what did 
you mean by sending for that?” 

Carnes took the packet from his hand, and rapidly re- 
moved the papers that enfolded a cabinet photograph. 

“Ugh! ” he exclaimed. “There he is; look at him. 
Captain ” 

The chief of police took the picture, and scanned it 
eagerly. 

“He is an ugly looking customer,” he said finally. 

“Not half so ugly as the original,” said Dick Stan- 
hope. 

Instantl)^ the eyes of his two companions were fixed 
upon him; 

“Have you seen him?” they both said with one breath. 

“Seen him? Yes — I should say so! ” 

“Dick Stanhope!” cried Carnes, springing up and seiz- 
ing his friend by the shoulder. “Have you see?i that 
fellow since Lucretia Warham was found dead?” 

“What ails you, old man!” said Stanhope, laughing, 
“Of course I have seen him since. I saw him at her 
funeral, saw him at her grave. He was at John War- 
ham’s house when the news of her death arrived* Why, 
Carnes — old man, what ails you?” 

“What ails me! " cried Carnes, now pale with excite- 
ment. “Dick Stanhope, have you lost your cunning? — 
have you lost your eyes ; your senses? Where was your 
skill, you, student of the ^physiognomy of things,’ that 
you could not suspect, dream, guess, that you saw be- 
fore you, Lucretia Warham’ s murderer?" 

"No!" Stanhope sprang up, and with both hands 
forcibly wrested his friend’s grasp from his shoulder; 

23 


343 


A SLENDER CLUE 


and now, he too was pale, and regardless, in his excite- 
ment, that he still held his friend’s hand, clutched be- 
tween his own strong fingers. 

“No, no, Carnes!” he said again. “It can’t be true! 
Why — why, it would be terrible! Man, you don’t know 
what has happened!" 

“I know that we are letting a murderer escape! I 
know that Joseph Larsen killed Mrs. Warham! — and 
I’ll convince you that he did, if you will sit down and 
listen.” He drew away his hands and turned to resume 
his seat, almost quivering with excitement. “But first," 
he strove to speak calmly — “do you know where he is 
now} ” 

Stanhope sat down, calming himself by a visible 
effort. 

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I know where he is!" He took 
out his handkerchief and passed it slowly across his brow. 

The chief of police, sitting opposite, a silent, watch- 
ful observer, made an impatient movement and said, 
a touch of sarcasm in his tone: 

“To an uninitiated observer, my friends, this looks — 
slightly melodramatic. There is considerable evidence,- 
Stanhope, of the circumstantial kind, I regret to say, 
pointing toward this Larsen as the guilty man. Why it 
strikes you as improbable and shocking beyond the 
ordinary, I confess myself unable to see.” 

Stanhopes’s eyes turned toward him and his tone was 
respectful but by no means apologetic as he said: 

“I have never been considered, nor considered myself 
soft-hearted, Captain B — , but I am not yet so old in 
my profession as to be entirely unaffected by the hid- 
eousness of this thing, if it is true. If Joseph Larsen 
killed this woman, he killed his oivn another, not know- 
ing the truth. And he learned that she was his mother, 
standing beside her coffined body.” 


CHIEFS IN COUNCIL 


343 


“My God!” ejaculfited Rufus Carnes, and the chief of 
police caught his breath and sat staring straight before 
liim. 

In the silence which followed, Richard Stanhope con- 
sulted his watch, took from his pocket some papers and 
a small note-book, and drew his chair up to the table. 

“You have said some things,” he began, “which I 
cannot understand; but 1 came here to tell you what I 
know, and as you seem to be already enlisted, we may 
arrive at something like an understanding sooner and 
easier, perhaps, if I tell my story first, as it includes the 
beginning of this strange affair, which seems to grow 
more complicated at every step, and promises to lead 
us a long chase. Shall I go on?” 

The chief of police nodded and settled himself to 
listen. 

“By all means,” said Carnes in a subdued tone, and 
then he did a characteristic thing. The photograph of 
Joseph Larsen lay upon the table, face uppermost 
directly before him, and he took up a long thin paper 
knife, and with it deftty turned the photog-raph over, 
with the air of one who hides from his sight a loath- 
some thing. 

. ’’That fellow’s face infuriates me as the red flag does 
the bull,” he said sinking back in his chair. “Now, 
Dick, begin.” 

“It is several days since Mr. Colton met me on the 
street and asked me to go with him at once to his office,” 
began the young detective. I think that he might, if 
he had not happened upon me just then, have employed 
another agent, perhaps; although he was good enough 
to say that he had me in view from the first. How- 
ever that may be, I was unoccupied and I went with 
him. It was ver}^ little that he had to say; only that 
one Mr. John Warham, a friend and client, had tel- 


nu 


A SLENDER CLUE 


egraphed him that morning, asking him to send at once 
an able detective at any cost, and would I go. The 
distance was considerable, and the business so vague 
that I would have declined promptly but for those three 
words, “at any cost.” When a thrifty Illinois farmer 
tacks those three expansive words to such a telegram, it 
means something uncommon; so I told Mr. Colton that 
I would go. He handed me • over a handsome sum to 
cover my expenses and as a ‘retaining fee,’ that’s how 
he put it, and in an hour I was off. I was to go straight 
into the presence of Mr. Warham upon arrival, so after 
a little reflection I ‘made up’ as a sort of cross be- 
tween a seedy parson and a needy school-teacher, out 
of employment, and I was setting out for Upton when 
I met you, Carnes, philandering with Patsy Reagan on 
that old hack. 

“Now I’m anxious to get this thing over with, so I 
will not begin at the beginning and take you over the 
ground as I went over, but ITl tell you the story from 
my present point of view. It’ll save time, and I can 
answer questions and go into details later, if I don’t 
make things plain enough.’’ 

“Very good,” said the chief. Carnes only nodded. 

“Old John Warham lives five miles from the town of 
Upton, and he is accounted the richest farmer in that 
portion of the state; he has been all his life a farmer 
and understands his business better than two of us here 
present,” with a sweep of the hand including Carnes and 
himself, “understand ours. He understands some other 
things toleraby well, and there are some few things 
which he understands not at all. In short he’s shrewd, 
but his shrewdness is limited. He’s obstinate — but 
there’s no limit to that. When I knew the man I could 
easily account for those three words: ‘af any cost,' War- 
ham lives in a big, expensive new farm-house. They 


CHIEFS IN COUNCIL 


345 


vvouldn^t call it a farm-house, mind you, but a ‘resi- 
dence.’ You can see just such places all through the 
country — big, sprawling, showy outside, cramped and 
crooked, and divided into as many rooms as possible, in- 
side; built by contract; big money, small comfort. But 
this is ‘parenthesis.’ Warham lived here with his second 
wife and his daughter, Bertha, until the night, now some 
three weeks ago, when she, the daughter, disappeared. 
It was another case of missing bride, for on the evening 
of the next day she was to have been married, to a mer- 
chant of Upton almost as old and as rich as her father. 
He was not a bridegroom to gush over; all his attrac- 
tions were tied up in his money-bags; you can find a few 
such men in every town, quiet, correct, all his wit ab- 
sorbed in money-getting; driving a hard bargain all the 
week, going to church on Sunday and staying to Sunday- 
school; fun in a rut all his life, expecting when he got 
his young wife to keep her in the rut too. I fancy John 
Warham’s money had fascinated him quite as much as 
John Warham’s daughter. But he had no hand in her 
disappearance; I may as well say that now, and let him 
drop. He was dreadfully shocked, of course, but his 
grief was more for himself than for the loss of a wife. 
The affair dragged him out of his rut, and made him 
unpleasantly conspicuous for a time. It wasn’t in his 
scheme of life, which consisted only of money-getting and 
money-saving, week days ; going to church twice on Sun- 
day, marrying and burying, and being born. The affair, 
as I say, shook him up wofully, -but as soon as he decent- 
ly could he scrambled back into his rut again, and there 
we will leave him; he’s sure to ‘stay put.’ By the by, 
don’t infer from my comments that I disapprove of go- 
ing to church, twice if 5^11 like, on a Sunday; on the 
contrary it’s a thing I approve, and recommend — ahem 
— to both of you.” 


340 


A SLENDER CLUE 


The chief smiled indulgently at this digression, but 
Carnes, with his eyes fastened moodily upon the reversed 
picture, made no sign that he heard. 

"When the old man — Warham, I mean of course — was 
told that his daughter was missing, he never said a word 
but went straight to her room and himself examined 
every detail; he examined the bed which was awkwardly 
tumbled but evidently had not been slept in, took acount 
of the disarranged furniture, and then went below; 
when he went out he locked the door and took the key 
with him, and, thanks to one of his whims, the room 
remained just as they found it. His first tilt,i.in behalf 
of the belief he was silently working toward, was with 
his wife, who, during the day, demanded the key that 
she might ^set the room to rights.’ The old man refused 
and commanded his wife and ail hands to keep away 
from that room, and to make sure that they did, he kept, 
and still keeps the key. That night he “ announced his 
belief that his daughter had been forcibly abducted and 
killed or worse, and he clung and still clings to that 
belief. He has been a hard old fellow and as hard upon 
himself as upon others. By the time he had reached 
his conclusion he broke down; anxiety, suspense, and 
overwork mastered him, held him to his bed, and he is 
there yet; rather, he divides his time between that and 
an invalid’s chair. 

"It appears that the marriage that was so suddenly post- 
poned was not Miss Bertha Warham’s first venture in that 
direction; she had been engaged to this same Joseph 
Larsen, and their engagement had lasted almost a year 
when it was broken off. They had quarreled and com- 
promised before, but finally she dismissed him. He was 
badly cut up— all agree upon that point — and talked and 
acted like a madman. He hung about until a few days 
before that set for the. marriage, then he disappeared and 


Chiefs in council 


347 


was not seen again until the girl had been missing more 
than a week.” 

“Stop! ” interposed Carnes suddenly; "zvhcn did he make 
his last appearance there, Dick?” 

“He showed himself at Warham’s place on the night 
before the woman’s body was sent home, came late in 
a pouring rain.” 

“Were you there? Did you see him there?” 

“I was there. I saw him — ” 

“Wait!” again broke in Carnes. “On what day did this 
news — this — telegram reach Upton? ” 

Stanhope consulted his note-book. “On Monday — at 
or near noon," he replied. 

“Umph!” ejaculated Cannes, “more than thirty-six 
hours after the deed was done. And you say that he 
arrived in the vicinity the evening — ” 

“The night before." 

“Oh! Then he must have reached Upton — ” 

“At eleven o’clock precisely— by the late express. 
He walked to the house — five miles.” 

As Carnes, growing more restless with every word that 
he uttered, was about to launch another question, the 
chief of police lifted a warning finger. 

“Carnes,” he said, “we are putting Stanhope off the 
track and we promised him attention. To keep you in 
peace fora half-hour or so, I will just mention what you 
may already know — that Larsen might have left the city 
by either of two routes at midnight on the night the 
murder was committed, and reach Upton as he did.” 

“I didn’t know that. Cap,” said Carnes with a look of 
relief. “I feel better. Drive on, Dick.” 

“When I went to Upton,” resumed the young detective, 
smiling indulgently at his restless friend, “the question 
was not who killed Mrs. Lucretia Warham, you will 
please remember, but, what has become of Miss Bertha 


348 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Warham? And that, gentlemen, if I may be permitted 
to suggest, I think should be our question fiotv, for, 
after considerable thought and in’^estigation I am con- 
vinced that this girl, living or dead, is at the bottom 
of the well we are trying to fathom. 

"She must be the Devil!" said Carnes, bluntly. 

"When a woman is handsome, clever, ambitious, vis- 
ionary, perfectly fearless and unscrupulous in getting 
her own way, there is no need to call in the Devil. I 
think that I’ve read thai somew here, gentlemen. It sounds, 
now that it’s out, too epigrammatic to be original with me. 
Perhaps I got it of Carnes here, epigram is in his line. 
However you’re welcome to it and Pm anxious to get to 
the end of my story; there’s a good deal of it to unload.” 

He went rapidly over some of the ground, but when 
he came to the part, which concerned Joseph Larsen he 
grew graphic and told his story in detail. Up to the 
point where Susan announced her intention to go in per- 
son after the officers, his auditors listened silenthq but 
here Carnes broke out. 

"By Jove! I like that Susan! Are there any more women 
like her down there, Dick?" 

"No. Nor anywhere else. Like her! well so do I. 
I adore her, in spite of her sharp nose, and her straight 
calico gowns, and her forty years or so. At this present 
moment Susan is the only woman who holds a reserve 
seat in my heart. I wish she were twenty instead of — " 

"If she were twenty she’d be a fool," snapped Carnes. 
"I dare say she was a fool at twenty. Did she go for 
the sheriff?" 

"She did indeed, harnessed her own horse and drove 
like a jockey. Brought back a sheriff and a fat sensible 
little lawyer." 

"Why a lawyer?" interposed Captain B . 

"Well, you see, I had promised Larsen not to tell his 


CHIEFS IN COUNCIL 


849 


Story, and I wanted to keep my word. At the same 
time I wanted to ‘perpetuate’ the story; and I was 
afraid he wouldn’t always remember it. I thought his 
symptoms were bad. You know I’ve had some expe- 
rience with lunatics, Carnes." 

Carnes nodded. 

"Well, Larsen was in just the condition to be mas- 
tered ; he was worn out mentally and physically, and I 
never let up my grip on him, from the time Susan left 
us until she came back wdth her men. I kept him under 
the influence of my eye and voice; I made him lie down 
and then I sat down close by the bed with my little gun 
on my knee, and talked to him. By the time they came, 
he was prepared to make his deposition. The little 
lawyer took down his story very much as I have told it 
to you. ’’ 

"Stanhope," said Captain B , "you have not told 

us what you think about that story yet." 

"Wait," said the narrator, "I am not done with Lar- 
sen. " 

"While the lawyer was taking down Larsen’s story," 
said Stanhope, resuming his narrative, "we heard more 
or less commotion below. But I did not see fit to 
leave my post, and the lawyer took no notice of it but 
went straight on With his work. Larsen seemed quite 
restless, and sometimes he stopped to listen and 
the lawyer had to start him again. It made me 
feel a bit uneasy, for I thought the old man had 
taken a turn for the worse; but the sheriff was down- 
stairs, and so was Susan: and T stuck to my post until 
the deposition was made and signed; then I asked the 
lawyer to go down and send up the sheriff, intending to 
turn my prisoner over to him at once. Just as he was 
going, I heard horses’ hoofs galloping away and said to 
myself, they are going for the doctor. 


350 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"When the sheriff came in he said, ‘they want you 
downstairs, young man,^ and I knew by his look and 
tone that something had happened. So I just told him 
who I was, and that Larsen was under suspicion, and 
laid my pistol on the table beside him, as I went out. 
At the foot of the stairs I met Susan and she told 
the whole story in a breath, in her sensible way. ‘We 
have just had a message from Mr. Colton,’ she said, 
‘Lucretia Warham has been murdered.’ 

"‘Lucretia?’ I began, for I didn’t know the woman’s 
name. 

"‘John’s wife,’ she said. ‘They are going to bring the 
body home. He wants you.’ 

"I think that I rather expected to find the old man 
prostrate: instead I found him sitting up in bed and not 
seeming particularly grief-stricken, but much shocked 
and strong with the strength of excitement. 

"‘Shut the door,’ he said, the moment I entered the 
room. ‘Has Susan told you?’ I said ‘yes,’ and took a 
seat beside the bed. 

"‘It’s a horrible thing,’ he said, ‘I can’t understand it. 
Colton has the body in charge and telegraphs for in- 
structions. I told him to send it on with a decent 
escort.’ Then he switched off abruptly: ‘Susan says it 
was you that sent for the sheriff?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. 

“‘What for?’ he asked, and I said that it was to put 
Larsen under arrest. 

"‘I thought so,’ he said. And then he told me in few 
and plain words that Larsen must not be taken out of 
the house until after his wife’s funeral; he might be as 
much of a prisoner as we liked, but he must be kept 
there; he must be there when the body came, and there 
when it was buried. 

"1 arranged with the sheriff of course, and he sent out 
a deputy to look after Larsen, who did not seem to nee4 


CHIEFS IN COUNCIL 


351 


much looking after.; he lay upon the bed most of the 
time dumb and stupid enough. He took his meals in 
his room, and never left it until the body came. Susan 
had been the one to tell him the news, and she said 
he took it dumbly, as he did about all we said to him. 
I told him it was the old man’s wish that he should 
stay there until after the funeral, and he took that 
dumbly too. 

“The day the body was expected his adopted mother 
came; she was Mrs. Warham’s sister, and she just about 
filled the house with her wailing. When it came, and 
was cared for and shut up in its coffin in the big parlor, 
Susan came to me and said that the old man wanted 
me to bring Larsen down; he was waiting for us in the 
parlor, alone with the body. He had been sitting up 
nearly all day and dragging himself about from room to 
room. The doctor said we must not interfere with him, 
it would do no good. 

“I was beginning to get uneasy about Larsen; I felt 
about as comfortable as I would sitting over the crater 
of a volcano that was beginning to rumble. The fellow 
had been stolid and dumb so long, that I felt sure it 
would take very little to break him up and then — well 
I won’t anticipate; before I went after him I hunted up 
the doctor and asked him to be within call, should any- 
thing happen in the parlor. 

“"W'hen we went in Larsen started, and I felt him 
shiver; the old man had opened the shutters of one win- 
dow and it let a stream of light straight into the mid- 
dle of the room where he stood alone at the foot of the 
shrouded coffin. 

“Larsen stopped short just inside the door, and looked 
at that coffin with a fixed stare that made my blood run 
cold. I’ve been in some tight places, I’ve seen some 
fearful sights, but for a scene of downright, cold. 


352 


A SLENDER CLUE 


clamm}^, blood-curdling horror, that scene surpassed.” 

He drew a long breath and looked slowly from one 
listener to the other before he resumed. 

"The old man began to speak without lifting his eyes 
from the coffin. ‘Joe,’ he said slowly, "they say that you 
know more about my poor girl than you will ever tell, 
and may be it’s true. If it is, you may take this that I 
am about to tell you, as the beginning of your punish- 
ment, and you may look to that young man there beside 
you for the end of it: but whether it’s true or not it’s 
my duty to tell you this: I found it out a good while ago, 
and she knew that I did; it made some difference, some 
trouble between us. Bertha found it out too — accident- 
ally.’ The old man stopped and moistened his lips 
and seemed to brace himself I couldn’t imagine what 
was coming. ‘Bertha was pretty badly shocked,’ he 
went on, ‘and I guess it may have made some difference 
in her feelings toward you; ’twould be natural. But 
she promised not to tell, and she was a girl to keep her 
word. 

“^‘Joe, this poor murdered woman lying here was your 
mother. She caused you to be adopted into her own 
family, and the elders, her father and mother, knew the 
truth; and that’s why they gave you their name, Larsen; 
your adopted mother never knew the truth, and don’t 
now. She's always kept a kind of watch over you, and 
she’s made a will leaving all her money to you. ’Twas 
agreed between us. I think she was strongly tempted 
to tell you sometimes. I’m sure she was. There’s no 
doubt about all' this; there’s proofs enough although 

we’ve kept ’em so close. She was your mother, Joe; I 

I don’t know who your father was.’ I had been so aston- 
ished myself that I had kept my eye upon the old man 
instead of Larsen, and as I turned I had just one glimpse 
of him before he went down. He was clutching at 








CHIEFS IN COUNCIL 


353 


his throat, with his eyes fairly bulging out of his head, 
and still riveted upon that coffin; a purple wave seemed 
to surge from his neck to his temples and his lips were 
white with froth; he made a lurch forward as if to 
approach the coffin, and then with the howl of a demon 
he toppled over and lay at full length and perfectly 
rigid, half-underneath it. 

"The doctor was there in a moment and with his first 
conscious breath forced down a strong opiate; we kept 
him quiet with opiates until after the funeral; Warham 
seemed bent on dragging him through it, and he did, 
but when it was over the fellow broke again. The doc- 
tor said it was of no ^se — ” 

"Stanhope,” cried Carnes in strong excitement, 
"'what are you driving at? Where is Larsen now?” 

"He’s in a mad-house.” 

"Insane/" 

Stanhope thrust both hands deep down into his 
pockets and stretched out his legs like a man with a 
burden off his mind. 

"If he isn’t insane,” he said, "he’s doing some aston- 
ishing acting, and a good deal of unnecessary damage." 

"How does he act?” 

"Like a mad dog! like a demon. In padded walls and 
a straight jacket. Ironed to the floor." 

"Do you believe him insane, Dick?" 

"Upon my word I don’t know what to think.” 

"And da you believe his story about the girl?" 

"There you are again! And thereby hangs the rest of 
my story; but a man can’t talk forever and never eat. 
Let’s adjourn for luncheon. Carnes, I haven’t heard your 
side of this story yet." 


CHAPTER XXXV 


A STUDY OF CHARACTERISTICS 

When they had refreshed themselves, and Carnes had 
made clear to Stanhope all that had happened during 
the time of his absence, he came back to the old ques- 
tion. 

"Do you believe that Larsen told the truth about 
Bertha Warham?" 

The chief of police had been called away from their 
council and the two detectives were again in Carnes’ 
room, smoking after their late repast. 

"I think we are about ready to discuss that point, " said 
Stanhope. "The thing does not look improbable. Let 
us suppose now that Larsen’s importunities tried the girl, 
and perhaps frightened her a little, not for herself, I 
think she must have been incapable of personal fear, but 
for the man she was about to marry. She might have 
felt convinced that Larsen would do him harm, or 
there might have been mixed motives. Perhaps she was 
a little tired of her bargain, and, driven half-desperate 
by Larsen’s threats and importunities; she must have 
been disgusted with him too, and perhaps planned a 
revenge that would rid her of him and her elderly lover 
at the same breath. She would give Larsen the trouble 
of carrying her off, and then leave him in the lurch. 
There is just one strong fact in support of this theory." 

"What is that." 

"At the last, I got from John Warham a bit of intel- 
ligence that I should have heard sooner. I had a sort 

354 


A STUDY OF CHARACTERISTICS 


355 


of suspicion, and went to him and asked point-blank if 
the girl had any considerable amount of money at her 
command, before she disappeared. I told him that it 
was an important point. He made me promise not to 
mention it to Susan, and then admitted that he had 
given Bertha a large check, only a week before, as an 
installment of her marriage portion; and that she must 
have had, besides this sum, between two and three 
thousand of her mother’s legacy left. It appears that 
she had paid out fully half of that legacy for the furni- 
ture and jim-cracks ^hat she had collected in her rooms, 
and for sundry valuable bits of jewelry. She left neither 
money nor jewels behind her." 

"Oh, ho!" said Carnes rubbing his chin, and looking 
as if considering a conundrum. 

Stanhope drew forth from the breast of his coat a 
bulky package and threw it upon the table between 
them. 

"I think it’s the right time to read these letters," he 
said; "I have marked such portions as I wished to refer 
to, and to call to your attention. But read them all; we 
don’t usually see alike, and you may find something that 
I have overlooked." 

"And what did you find, youngster?" asked Carnes as 
he untied the bundle. 

"The key to the girl’s character." 

"Umph! what are these?” holding up three papers 
folded together and unlike the others. 

"The things I found in her room; Larsen’s letter, 
Rose Hildreth’s letter. The fragment of letter written 
by Bertha to Larsen in which she refers to a secret." 

"Oh! well, amuse yourself, Dick; I’m going in for 
correspondence." 

"Go ahead," said Stanhope cheerfully. 

A long time Carnes read and wrinkled his brows, and 

24 


356 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Stanhope smoked and lounged. The stillness of the 
room was broken only by the rustling of paper or the 
occasional movements of the two men. 

Finally Carnes put the last letter down and turned a 
puzzled face toward his companions. 

"That’s a precious batch of correspondence!" he said 
sarcastically. "A key to character is it? I should say there 
was material enough for a dozen characters. Pve passed 
over your marked extracts, Dick, along with the rest, and 
Tve added a few marks of my own. Draw up here now, 
and let’s go over these precious selections together." 

Stanhope drew his chair forward and Carnes reversed 
a little pile of letters that lay before him, so that the 
one at the bottom should come first to his hand. 

"Now then,” he said, "for extract number one." 

He took up the first letter and began to read aloud 
the portion outlined by Stanhope’s blue pencil. 

'LThe house is done at last; at least I shall enjoy my 
rooms; they are two, though only separated by an arch. 
In the city you would call them a suiie. Susan says ‘the 
bedroom with a sink in it.’ When I come up to the city 
to select my furniture, you will go with me. I say you 
will,’ you must. I shall take you. Father says that I 
will spend all my money for flummery. Why shouldn’t I? 
there is not enough to save. Four or five thousand dol- 
lars, what is that? they have limited notions of wealth 
here in Upton. My notion is to have not one or two 
rooms but a great house splendidly and tastefully fur- 
nished; to have my own carriage, my box at the opera, 
and a welcome in ‘Our best society,’ always assured. 
But / could not value riches and luxury at the expense 
of reputation, and social position. Rose, that is one of 
the things that I cannot understand. How is it that our 
cities and cemeteries are crowded with women who ar^ 


A STUDY OF CHARACTERISTICS 


357 


and who seem content to be, well dressed lepersf What 
can money give these women? food and shelter, such 
as a rare animal may have, nothing more. Oh, money 
with position and power is one thing, money without 
these is worse than nothing." 

"There’s sentiment for yon," commented Carnes as he 
put the letter aside. "Well-dressed lepers! Well, that 
is characteristic. Let’s try another.” 

"Perhaps it is not altogether my fault, Rose, if I hold 
^queer notions.’ All the notions that have ever come 
under my observation — very crude they were — are — have 
been ‘queer.’ The notion, always given the first place 
by my father, that one must get money, and keep it, 
has come down to me in a modified form — get money 
and spend it. Susan’s notions, well, you may say they 
are the notions of the feminine half of this community: 
Monday wash, or overlook the proceeding. It’s a part of 
their life; these women, if their hands are not in the 
tub their hearts are. Mondays are not hot days or cold 
days, fair days or foul, bright days or dark. They are, 
every one of them, summer and winter through, every 
year of an Upton woman’ s natural life, wash days. There 
is also included in their ‘six days of labor,’ an ironing 
day, a baking day and a ^clea?iing up day.’ The last 
the worst of the lot. And this is what it will be to be- 
come Mrs. Joseph Larsen! Larsen — oh, the ugly name! 
and Joseph too, Josie! Joe! Oh-h-h! A dancing bear!" 

Carnes threw down the letter with a short dry laugh. 
"Upon my word," he said, "that is an extraordinary 
girl. .She must have written that on a wash-day. Now 
listen to this.” 

"It’s all very well for you to philosoj)hize and Halk 


858 


A SLENDER CLUE 


sense " — Rose Hildreth talking sense is a joke, ./ 
think — Bah! I am in no mood for sense — sense! com- 
mon sense! the very commonest kind, that is our daily 
diet here, that and pork and beans, corned beef and cab- 
bage. It’s the truth, Rose; sitting here in my bower sur- 
rounded by my beautiful things, I can’t keep the odor of 
cabbage from my nostrils. When I build a house — oh, 
there we have talked that all over, 3mu and^ I. Our 
houses are built — in Spain — they are glittering and 
glowing without and within." 

"Umph," grunted Carnes. "Now here’s another pas- 
sage " 

"Positively, Rose, if it were not for my room and my 
pony, I should go mad; and oh, my habits! yes, there are 
two, one cloth, regulation thing, tall hat, white veil, 
gauntlets. It need not be ashamed of itself in Central 
Park. The other — well, you know my taste — it would 
grace a nobleman’s hunt, a castle drawbridge, Rome, the 
Arena. Do you know I am thinking seriously of sad- 
dling Wild-bird some fine night and running away, with 
my two dainty habits —you may be sure they cost a 
round sum — to join — a circus. Only — only you know what I 
mean — I am luxurious ‘clean through’ — to wheel and 
whirl in an amphitheater, gorgeous with banners and 
lights, and palpitating with music, cheered by the plaud- 
its of a throng, is one thing. To be dragged about the 
country o’ nights; to doff my robes and plumes in a 
dingy dressing tent; to eat and drink and sleep on the 
wing, and to have for my associates illiterate athletes, 
profane clowns, vulgar tobacco-chewing banner-bearers; 
not to mention the woman who walks the tight rope 
outside the tent before the performance, the snake- 
charmer, feminine of course — since the Devil made his 


A STUDY OF CHARACTERISTICS 


359 


first great success in the same role, he’s been reluctant 
to trust it to a blundering man. Look before you leap, 
Rose. I’ve looked on all sides of the circus tent, and 
even peeped under the canvas, and ifs settled. I woiFt 
be an actress in the ring.” 

Carnes laid this letter down and stole a glance at 
Stanhope. The young man was lighting a fresh cigar 
and looking perfectly indifferent. "Well!” he said after 
a moment of silence, ‘‘why don’t you go on?” 

Carnes took up the next letter and began to read. 

”1 don’t like the way you go on about that unfortunate 
girl. The adjective is yours, not mine; I can imagine 
myself in many roles. Doing various ‘reckless’ things, 
a fanatic, an adventuress, even a murderess, but I carTt 
imagine m}'self in that girl’s place; please don’t ask it 
of me. Imagine myself ‘and all for love’ becoming that 
wretched thing, a man’ s' lightest toy — never! If I ever 
find myself loving a man too much. I’ll run away from 
him, put the breadth of the world between us. In my opin- 
ion this love is a disease of the blood, a vile epidemic; 
if I caught it I would go straight to a doctor — a woman 
would better be dead than madly in love with a man she 
cannot rule.” 

Carnes laid this letter down and turning in his chair 
looked squarely at Stanhope. 

‘That must be the letter that called out Rose Hil- 
dreth’s protest, as too shocking for her mother’s nerves,” 
said the latter taking the cigar from between his lips. 
‘‘Did you note what she says about going on the stage?” 

‘‘Umph! yes. Wait, let’s read it again. I think I see 
your drift. Here it is.” 

"So you are stage-struck, Rosie. Well, of course it 


300 


A SLENDER CLUE 


had to come; every passably good-looking girl discovers, 
sooner or later, that she was born to be an actress. You 
have some pretty talent, my dear, but I fancy that 3’ou 
can find employment for your little talent off the stage; 
you precious little goose, every woman of society, every 
woman of the world is an actress, more or less. And 
the better the actress the more successful the woman. 
The woman who can't laugh when she’s sad, and smile 
when she’s ‘mad,’ and treat detestable people as though 
she adored them is at a lamentable disadvantage in this 
world. Now / am an actress. I am not particularly 
proud of it. Why should I be? I was born an actress, 
and, on or off the stage I dare say I shall die dramatic- 
ally. But the stage is not my first choice — I have other 
ambitions. I could’ t begin a ballet-girl at eight dollars 
a week, at the mercy of managers, landladies, every- 
body, any more than I could travel with a circus. But 
if some day I should come into possession of a little fort- 
une, money enough, say, to clothe me richly and enable 
me to live above salaries and independent of managers 
and landladies, then I might venture. And this is how 
I would begin. I would go to the manager of a first- 
class theater and say to him: I believe there is the mak- 
ing of an actress in me, and I am willing to work for 
fame. If you will give me an opportunity to ‘try my 
’prentice hand,’ with a company of good actors, I will 
wait your time, I will begin at the bottom, so far as 
work goes; speak one line or pose in a ball-room scene 
and remain mute. I will wait for an opening or a 
vacancy. I will promise to dress and behave like a lady, 
and I will accept what pay you choose to give me. Then 
if I could not make myself known and felt within the 
year I would say, ‘go to, you are not an actress, you are 
only another mistaken woman.’ And I should feel sure 
that I had only myself to thank for m\^ failure ‘ 


A STUDY OF CHARACTERISTICS 


861 


"At this present moment,” said Stanhope, when Carnes 
paused and looked over at him, "if that girl is alive 
and well she is probably in a position to put that idea 
of hers into execution.” 

"That^s true. Now let us suppose that she is alive 
and adrift in this city or some other, what then?” 

"Well, I think Larsen’s scheme was not a bad one, 
whether he was honest in his search or not. I think 
it would be wise to have some more copies of that 
photograph made and distributed pretty freely — ” 

"Among the theaters?” 

"Among the reporters, first. The various chiefs and 
heads of bureaus are already supplied I suppose.” 

Carnes nodded. 

"Then we might go the rounds of the theaters.” 

"Now?” 

‘Well — suppose I take one of the pictures and call 
upon — say Manager Velly, I tell him a convenient 
little story, and ask him to keep an eye open for such 
an applicant, and, when she comes, to engage her, off- 
hand, at our expense.” 

"Umph!” said Carnes with one of his characteristic 
frowns. "You will want to draw it mild, or he will 
gobble her up and bill her as the heroine of the great 
sensation, or scandal, the supposed victim and probable 
cause of a murder." 

"That’s a fact; we mustn’t make her too interesting; 
she’ll be likely to do that for herself fast enough. But 
really I don’t see that we can do much more, just now. 
If Larsen’s lunacy takes a talkative turn he may give us 
a hint. But he is guarding a secret of some sort; he’s 
dumb as a mute.” 

“Yes— a good deal of method in his madness. I 
must go down and see him in a day or two. I may 
fancy playing lunatic myself." 


362 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“You think he's shamming altogether, Carnes. I don't. 
Why, look at it. If his story is true, to begin with, if, 
after eloping with this girl with whom he was so infat- 
uated and after she had eluded him, he encountered this 
woman, quarreled with her and then murdered her, to 
learn immediately after that he has killed his own 
mother, he must have a wonderfully well-balanced 
brain, noi to go mad. And he had noi a well-balanced 
brain. He had been torn to tatters with disappointment 
and rage for days, going without food and sleep, feed- 
ing upon his own excitement. It was enough to drive 
him mad." 

"That’s so," assented Carnes. 

"The doctors pronounced it insanity, brought on by 
nervous excitement, and they do not consider it incur- 
able. It is our business now to keep an eye upon him, 
and if we are not satisfied that he is in safe hands, to 
have him removed to another asylum. We must make 
sure that he is not discharged without our knowledge." 

"I’ll make sure of that," growled Carnes, "if I have to 
wait for him at the door of the asylum all summer with 
a warrant in my fist. When the doctors get through 
with him, T ll take him in hand. Powers! how I hate 
that fellow!” 

"Yes. You hated him at sight. It's not his crimes 
that caused it." 

"I know it. It was instinct.” 

"Well, I almost pitied the fellow that night when we 
brought him in out of the rain. But my attachment 
did not grow. When they took him away, he was the 
incarnation of a baffled demon.” 

"I wish we knew more of his capabilities. If he 
killed that girl and then began a hunt for her, merely 
to furnish himself with a defense, in case of arrest, he 
is a deep one. We may look for lively work, if ever 


A STUDY OF CHARACTERISTICS 


363 


he comes back to his senses, or they to him. And the 
boldness, the hardihood he displayed in going back to 
that murdered woman’s home!" 

"Yes," said Stanhope thougtfully, "Susan called my 
attention to something to which I did not attach much 
importance at the time. Looking back to it now it 
appears quite significant." 

"What was it?" 

"When Susan came to us in the kitchen, to tell her 
plans for the night, she told Larsen that he was to sleep 
in Mrs. Warham’s room. Now, he was not supposed to 
know that she was absent, but he made no comment 
upon this, and showed no surprise— Susan noted it, and 
spoke of it later. ” 

"That Susan must be a regular character," said Carnes 
reaching for a match and preparing to light a cigar. "I 
like her." 

"So do I," said Stanhope fervently. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


A TANGLE 

Joseph Larsen's violence, whether real as Stanhope 
half-believed, or feigned as Carnes more than half-be- 
lieved, did not abate. 

Days passed and the two men visited him frequently, 
and finally managed his removal to another hospital, 
where the physician in charge was taken into their con- 
fidence. 

Doctor Bluthardt was a grave, honest, competent 
physician, and they knew that Larsen, in his hands, was 
sure of humane treatment in his wildest moments; and 
that any appearance of returning intelligence, or suspi- 
cion of duplicity, would be promptly reported. 

When they had seen their insane quarry safe in the 
care of the good doctor, they felt that their vigilance, 
in one direction, might now relax. 

“We know where we may look for Larsen, worse luck," 
said Carnes grum|!)ily, to his familiar; “now where may 
we look for a trace of Bertha Warham?’’ 

They had placed the girl’s picture in the hands of a 
good photographer, who had hastened to furnish them 
with excellent copies, which were at once distributed as 
seemed to them best, among the great cities — north, 
south, east, and west. 

“She’ll take to the big towns,” Carnes had prophesied. 
"No need to look for her in the suburbs." 

The whimsical fellow had conceived a dislike for this 

364 


A TANGLE 


365 


unknown girl, second only to that which he felt for 
Larson. 

"Pd wait and see if she were alive,” retorted Stan- 
hope, “before I settled myself to detest her. I 
shouldn't care to discover that I had been hating a dead 
woman. ” 

“Oh, she's alive!” declared Carnes, “she's alive, and 
we're going to find her. When I have this sort of feel- 
ing, I always run down my game. It's a sort of blood- 
hound instinct." 

“For heaven's sake, stop!” cried Stanhope testily. 
“First, Larsen's a human tiger, and now you're a blood- 
hound. The race is not always to the swift; have you 
classified Miss Warham, too, pray?” 

“She’s a panther!” cried Carnes; “a sleek, soft-step- 
ping, velvety panther.” 

And now for a period of days, inaction seemed to 
have fallen upon all concerned in “the Warham Mys- 
tery,” and Carnes fumed, while Stanhope pondered; and 
the chief of police kept an argus eye upon all who had 
been brought under surveillance. Only Patsy found his 
occupation onerous. 

“If something don’t happen soon,” groaned this young 
sleuth, “/ shan’t have a leg to stand on. I wish Old 
Sharp and his shanty was dynamitered — that I does!” 

Patsy was spending his days in the street, watching 
over the goings and comings about Sharp’s agency, and 
reporting the same to his master faithfully each night. 

It was after hearing one of these reports, that Carnes, 
sitting in his room with Stanhope and Captain B — 
opposite him, exclaimed with a contemptuous sniff: 

“That man Sharp, confound him, is the most invet- 
erate sensation hunter it's been my misfortune to have 
had dealings with. What does he expect to gain by con- 


A SLENDER CLUE 




stantly agitating that ^Warham Mystery and Murder?' 
If Sharp knew what we know’’ — 

Stanhope thrust his pen behind his ear, and looked up 
from his note-book in which he had been writing. 

“It would make him happy," he said, “if Sharp knew 
that our chief of police, and detective Rufus Carnes 
knew more about Mrs. Warham and her visit to the city 
than any other person, and that she was murdered under 
their very eyes and noses, it would delight him. It was 
a thing that 5^011 could not foresee, and were in no wise 
responsible for; but you couldn’t expect Sharp to see it 
in just that light. You can’t afford to take him into 
3^onr confidence at f/iis stage of the game, old man. Let 
Sharp and his honor, the mayor, work the ground in 
their own way." 

Carnes turned upon him in unaffected aijiaze. 

“Look here, young man; are you gifted with second 
sight?" 

“Not quite,” laughed Stanhope, “but I happen to know 
that you have been asked to call upon Sharp and com- 
pany — " 

■ Umph!” 

"And that you went." 

Captain B — turned toward Carnes. 

“May we hear about it?" he asked. 

“There’s not much to hear. Sharp sent for me; he 
was very magnanimous; wanted me to co-operate with 
him, on my own terms; especially upon this Warham 
business. He does not know how much we are all in it. 
Of course, I declined." 

“So I suppose. Did he show you his hand?" 

Carnes laughed. 

T don’t think it’s made up — quite. Sharp has but 
one thing to go upon." 

“What’s that?" 


A TANGLE 


367 


"It^s that ear-ring found in the dead woman’s ear. 
He has visited all the pawn shops in the city, he and 
his men, scattering duplicate pictures. He has a notion 
that its fellow may turn up. His theory is, that the 
mysterious caller at^the Avenue was some crook who 
palmed himself off for an officer, or something like that; 
that he decoyed the woman away to rob her, and mur- 
dered her to protect himself." 

"Then he’s looking for you, Carnes," said Stanhope, 
rising as if to go away; "and he thinks that want and 
your evil ways will sooner or later drive you to the 
pawn-shops. It’s a fact that Sharp and his men are 
doing some real work; doing their best on this case. It 
would be a qi^eer muddle if some of them should trace 
that mysterious visitor to you, eh, Carnes?" 

The chief of police joined him in a laugh at the ex- 
pense of Carnes, but the latter looked glum, and bit his 
under-lip. 

"I don’t think it’s a laughing matter," he said. "I’m 
certain that Sharp, with his investigations, will get us 
into trouble, yet. It’s lucky for us that they never knew 
down there at Warham’s, what Mrs. Warham did when 
she came to the city. They don’t appear to have been 
a very devoted couple. Mrs. Warham never wrote a 
line home. You know Sharp’s men have been nosing 
about down there?” 

"What have you heard?” askqd Captain B — . 

"Oh, Dick’s heard. He’s had a letter from his sweet- 
heart, Susan.” 

"Yes,” said Stanhope, unconcernedly, "Susan has re- 
ported progress. Sharp’s men have not made much out 
of their journey. They found out that there had been a 
detective there, but Susan and the old man stuck to the 
text I gave them. When Sharp wants to find mCy he 
will look for the law-student amateur." But the best is, 


368 


A SLENDER CLUE 


that they did not get an idea of the hand Larsen has 
played; since he showed so much ^sensibility’, by 
going mad over the loss of Bertha, the Uptonites have 
fully acquitted him of blame or complicity in the 
affair; as for the relationship between Larsen and Mrs. 
Warham, that story did not get outside of the parlor, 
where it was told to Larsen first — even Susan does 
not know it." 

Mt’s a queer state of affairs," murmured the chief. 
"It’s as if we were battering our heads against one 
side of a blank wall, and Sharp and his men were flat- 
tening theirs against the other." 

"With more damage to the heads than to the wall," 
supplemented Carnes, maliciously. 

The next day Captain B— sent for the two detectives, 
and placed before them an anonymous letter. 

"This document," said he, "came the day when I over- 
hauled those hack-drivers and street angels; I thought 
it only another effort of somebody’s to do something 
sensational. You know as a rulq, I don’t deal much in 
these unsigned things; experience has taught me that 
not one in fifty are of use or value. But this— well the 
fact is, I thrust it aside rather hastily to attend to those 
cabbies and then I utterly forgot it. This morning it 
tumbled out of a mislaid note-book^ and it struck me 
that — perhaps — " 

"This might be the one in fifty?" broke in Carnes. 

"Well, I don’t know — fact is, it took a sort of a hold 
upon me, and so I’m going to share the responsibility 
with you two fellows." 

He took the letter from the desk, where he had placed 
it face uppermost, and removed its envelope. 

"I don’t think much of these things," he said, "still 
it contains a hint which may mean something. It’s evi- 
dent enough that the writer has disguised his hand and 


A TANGLE 


369 


very cleverly, too. Read it out, young man,” and he 
put the letter into Stanhope’s hand. 

Stanhope read aloud the following words: 

"Captain B — , Chief of Police. Sir: — The writer of 
this is a strangei*, and upon the point of leaving this 
place. While not desirous of being mixed up in what 
may prove to be a double tragedy, he yet feels it his 
duty to inform you that, shortly before the disappear- 
ance, he was witness to a meeting between a young lady 
answering to the description of the missing Miss War- 
ham, and a man whom she addressed as Joe, and who 
was the girl’s discarded lover. They quarreled; there 
were threats from the man, and an appointment was 
made for another meeting in that same place. This 
place, called ‘Death Rock,’ should, in my opinion, be 
thoroughly searched. The lost girl may be found in the 
pool at the base of the rock. Placed upon the witness 
stand, the writer could say 710 more\ therefore he deems 
his whole duty done when he signs himself — A Frmid 
to Justice." 

Stanhope finished the letter and laid it down in 
silence, glancing askance at Carnes, who was evidently 
excited. 

"W^here was that lettet posted,” asked the latter 
quickly. 

The chief held out the wrapper, and when Carnes had 
deciphered the Roseville postmark, he spread out a 
map and speedily traced out the distance between that 
village and Upton. 

"Close together,” he said, "just as I thought. There’s 
something in that letter,” — he turned suddenly upon 
Captain B — . "What are you going to do about it?” 

"I sent for you," replied the captain, "to discuss that 
very question." 


370 


A SLENDER CLUE 


They were not long in deciding. Carnes declared his 
intention to see Death Rock, and it was settled that 
they visit Roseville together, himself and Stanhope. 

“There's a river there,” he said referring to the map, 
“and there must be some sort of fishihg. We'll go as 
fishermen, and explore the Rock in the easiest manner 
by the river. You can keep track of Sharp, captain; 
and there's nothing else to keep us on duty here.” 

“I fancy,” said Stanhope, who had been pondering 
while the others talked, “that we may think it best to 
stay a few days down there. If we do I shall run down 
to Upton; Susan may give us a hint about the same 
Death Rock.” 

That evening they were e?i route for Roseville, and the 
next morning saw them, with an ostentatious fisher- 
man's outfit, occupying the very quarters lately vaca- 
ted by Mr. Jermyn. 

Roseville and Upton were less than twelve miles 
apart, but the two detectives were somewhat surprised 
to find that the people were very little interested in the 
fate of Bertha Warham or the murder of her step- 
mother. 

*T tell ye what!” said Brace, of the “Roseville House,” 
to his conjugal partner, on the day after their arrival, 
“them young fellers from the city may not ketch many 
fish but they’ll jest about have a jolly good loaf, and if 
they keep on the way they're goin' they'll know about 
half o' Rosey before they've been here a week. Dredful 
sociable fellars; and not one bit stuck up.” 

“They may suit you, Brace,” replied his better-half, 
“but 1 tell you o?ie thing: You'll go fur enough afore 
youTl git anybody into them front rooms that'll be the 
born gentlemen that Mr. Jermyn was.” 

“Umphl” sniffed Brace. “A wimmin’s man, that's what 
he was; s'pose his wife's keepin' him in a band-box by 


A TANGLE 


3:1 

this time;” and he went down to the office where his 
two guests were chatting volubly, and exchanging sto- 
ries, -piscatorial and other, with some of his habitual 
loungers, while Mrs. Brace grinned as she peeped into 
the lowest “bureau drawer,” where a “pattern ’ of “sage 
green” silk reposed in rolls of tissue paper. 

“They may be very fine fellers,” quoth she. "But itTl 
be many a long day afore another boarder makes me a 
present like that." 

"Well, Dick,” said Carnes to his friend, when they 
were at last closeted in Mrs. Brace’s “private settin’ 
room,” after their second night in Roseville. “Have we 
progressed an inch? ” 

Stanhope looked doubtful. 

“These people are positively apathetic,” he said con- 
temptuously. "I’ve only found them awake and alive 
upon one topic, and that is not Bertha Warliam.” 

"What is it?” 

"Have you observed those two ornate and ugly 
dwellings upon the hills to the westward?” Carnes 
nodded. "Well, they contain the aristocracy of the 
town. A sort of royalty; and what they do, and 
whom they entertain, are the chief topics of interest, 
apparently. I gather, from half a dozen, sources, that 
the story of the Warham troubles broke upon the tovv^n 
when the people were intently watching the doings of a 
house-party, on the Hills, very high society indeed, and 
the usual nine days of wonder were shortened, and the 
Warham troubles were extinguished, by the enormous 
interest taken in a very romantic and aristocratic court- 
ship and marriage following very close upon the heels 
of the tragedy aforesaid. It won’t be worth our while to 
linger here, Rufe. Let’s explore Death Rock and then 
take some more direct steps toward enlightenment." 

"That is, drop the fish-pole and apply the pump direct." 

25 


372 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“Precisely." 

“Wait a bit. Is there anything new and interesting 
among the Royal families, just now?" 

“That’s just it. Just now it appears that a rising son 
of one of the Hill nabobs has returned to his home 
quite unexpectedly and after a long absence, and it has 
just leaked out that he came for the sake of a pretty 
girl, poor but proud, the sister of the editor of Rose- 
ville’s solitary newspaper. The commotion this has 
created at the Hills has communicated itself to the 
entire town," 

Carnes got up and stretched himself. 

"I don’t see but that we s/ta// have to get up a coun- 
ter-commotion," he said. “Suppose we make our busi- 
ness known and try the open-handed dodge?" 

Stanhope laughed. “Not quite yet," he said; “But 
to-morrow we will visit the Rock." 

The next morning they went in a boat, taking Johnny 
Brace, half-grown, and in the matter of gossip, a true 
son of his mother. 

It was Johnny who secured them a good boat, and 
they found him a fount of information, unsuspecting, 
and very useful. 

Once at the Rock they were quick to see how easily it 
might have been made the scene of Bertha Warham’s 
farewell to earth. They explored the bridle-path by 
which she might have come from her home, and found 
that at least two other paths through the timber might 
have brought Larsen to the same rendezvous. They 
satisfied themselves that no drowned girl lay at the 
bottom of the pool below the great Rock, and amid 
the lesser ones, submerged, and concealed in the depths 
of still water. 

They found, too, the underground opening into which 
the water flowed silently and swiftly, as if drawn by some 
invisible, resistless, force. 


A TANGLE 


373 , 


It was puzzling, baffling. 

“If the writer of that anonymous letter 7neant to put 
us- upon an impossible scent,” said Carnes as they were 
about to return to Roseville, “he could not have done 
better. If his story is true, and Larsen and the girl 
met there a second time — well, we might as well give 
it up now. A body thrown off that Rock must be drawn 
into that hidden stream, and may be floating somewhere 
in the bowels of the earth at this moment.” 

“Has it occurred to you,” asked Stanhope, who had 
been very silent and thoughtful, “has it occurred to you 
that the object of the letter might have been just that?” 

“Just whatf” 

“To puzzle us; we can’t look for Bertha Warham be- 
yond the pool at the foot of that Rock." 

“True, and we can’t help but see what a probable meet- 
ing-place it might be. They could come so easily and so 
secretly through the woods from Upton.” 

“Don’t overlook the fact that one could come with 
equal ease from Roseville^' said Dick. 

They had been setting in the boat at the foot of the 
great boulder, and close to the group of sunken rocks 
which kept them from close contact with the mouth of 
the underground stream. 

“Let’s go back,” said Carnes, and he pushed the boat 
away from its place with a sudden force which swung 
it about and brought them close under the great bowl- 
der, a little lower down. 

On this side, the Rock jutted out over the water, and 
thick moss, and overhanging bushes, grew downward 
almost to the water’s edge, and inward, to the very mouth 
of the water}’ opening; at that moment they were nearer 
this opening than they had been before, and so near the 
Rock that, by leaning forward, at some risk of a wetting, 
Stanhope caught and clung to an overhanging shrub. 


S74 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“Push in,” he said to Carnes. “This gives a closer 
view,” and then he uttered a quick exclamation, and 
lifted himself until he stood with one foot upon the 
skiff’s edge and one hand clinging to a shrub high above. 

Then, suddenly there was a sharp exclamation from 
Carnes, a quick movement, a lurch of the boat, a splash- 
ing in the water. The next moment Stanhope emerged 
from his impromptu bath, drenched, but triumphant, 
grasping with one hand the side of the boat, and clutch- 
ing in the other the fragment of shrub to which he had 
been clinging and to which something while was at- 
tached. 

“Pm all right,” were his first words. “Get to shore, 
Carnes, I want to see what Pve captured.” 

A moment later, indifferent to his drenching, he was 
kneeling upon the mossy rock and spreading out before 
him the thing he had just detached from the fragment 
of shrubbery. 

“A woman’s kerchief!” exclaimed Carnes. 

“Yes — and — by Jove, Carnes, look!" He held up the 
limp and weather-beaten bit of soft linen so that Carnes 
could see clearly the two letters embroidered across one 
corner. 

“B. W. ! Bertha Warhaiti!" he cried. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


CARNES MISSES A CLUE 

When they had regained the privacy of their rooms at 
the Roseville House, and Stanhope had donned dry 
garments, the two detectives fell at once into talk about 
the little handkerchief with the initials. 

They had returned hastily from Death Rock, and the 
presence of Johnny Brace in the stern of the boat had 
kept them from discussing their find, while it had given 
them time to think it over, each for himself. 

Now they spread it out upon the table between them 
and surveyed it once more. 

"Pd give something to have seen that thing as it hung 
upon the bush, Dick,” said Carnes thoughtfully. "Can 
5'ou tell just how it was attached?” 

Stanhope shook his head. 

‘T see what you mean, Carnes,” he said; "but I can 
only tell that it seemed to rest among the leaves and little 
twigs, as if it had fallen there, not open and fluttering, 
but in a wrinkled mass as if from somebody’s half-shut 
hand. I see what you think, Rufe, you think this is a ‘fix,’ 
but at any rate, the thing was not displayed^ it would 
have been completely hidden if you had not pushed the 
boat into exactly that position; and you did not do it 
bn purpose.” 

Carnes shook his head; "no,” he said. “I meant to 
strike the rock further down.” 

”Yes; well, it could only have been seen from where 
370 


376 


A SLENDER CLUE 


we were, or where I was then, and I could only see a tiny 
bit of dingy white, which I took for, perhaps, a scrap 
of paper. It might have fallen from the hand of some- 
one at the edge of the Rock above, and lodged where I 
found it.” 

“It might?” echoed Carnes. 

“Oh, I am by no means prepared to say it did, but 
one thing I mean to do. I’m going to take this bit of 
linen and show it to Susan, and I’m going to-day.” 

“Quite right,” nodded Carnes. “But you’ve hit my 
notion, Dick; grant all that you say and throw in your 
ducking, and I still insist that we' came upon this ‘clue’ 
too easy. It fits into that anonymous letter too close." 

“True — and yet, suppose Susan identifies this handker- 
chief as Bertha Warham’s. will that change your views?” 

“It will complicate them,” said Carnes, and would say 
no more. 

That afternoon Stanhope secured a fleet young horse, 
and taking the road by the river, which in time brought 
him to the bridle-path through the woods and past 
Death Rock, he made his way quickly and quietly to the 
Warham place, and as quickly and quietly back again. 

Susan was the first to see him riding up the long lane 
by which he approached the house from the river, and 
she was awaiting him at a side entrance when he en- 
tered the farm -yard and dismounted. 

“Has any one else seen my approach, Susan? ” were his 
first words as he took her hard but friendly hand; “my 
time is short and I only came to you." 

“John’s asleep in his room,” she replied with brevity 
matching his own, “and there ain’t never a soul round 
this part of the place at this time o’ day. These are the 
dairy and milk rooms, and I keep the keys. Come in,” 
she pushed open the door at her back, and he followed 
her into the cool, clean dairy where she listened to his 


CARNES MISSES A CLUE 


377 


brief account of the visit to Roseville, and the finding 
of the handkerchief. 

At sight of the little square of cambric she caught her 
breath, and clutched at it with staring yes. "It’s hern," 
she cried after a single glance, "she made them initials 
with her own two hands and a dozen more like ’em — she 
made ’em only a few weeks before she went away.” 

"What do you think of this Susan?” 

"I don’t know! It’s mixed me all up again, this has. 
But I tell ye what, I don’t want to think that that beast of 
a Joe Larsen was able to outwit that girl and kill her 
right here almost in bearin’ of her own home. I won’t be- 
lieve it, till I have to.” 

"Do you think he wrote that letter then? as a decoy? 
perhaps.” He had brought the anonymous letter for her 
inspection, and he now put it into her hand. 

She took it and slowly labored through its contents, 
reading it a second time before she lifted her eyes from 
the page. 

"Joe Larsen didn’t write that" she said positively. 

"You think not?" 

"Yes sir. I ain’t a scholar myself, but I ain’t exactly a 
neether. Joe Larsen couldn’t have writ that letter 
if he’d a tried ever so. He was too blunderin’ and too 
coarse at his very best. If Lucretia — " she stopped short. 

"If Lucretia — well, what, Susan?” 

"I hadn’t orto say it, may be — but I was goin’ to say 
that if Lucretia Warham was alive she might have writ 
jist that sort of a letter. But not Joe. ' 

"And you can’t help me with an opinion about this 
handkerchief, Susan? Can’t give a guess as to how it 
came there?” 

"I tell you my idee’s are all upset, what few I did 
have. But I won’t believe that Bertha ever let herself be 
killed like that— hy Joe Larsen.” 


878 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“Yet you know this handkerchief to belong to heri^’’ 

"Sure/ rd swear to it anywhere.” 

Stanhope had not expected much from his visit to 
Susan, but he rode back to Roseville feeling unaccountably 
dissatisfied and baffled. He did not see John Warham, 
and he knew that the fact of his flying visit was a safe 
secret in Susan’s care. 

“It is what I looked for,” was the comment of Carnes 
when Stanhope had reported his interview. “Susan can 
see the muddle this bit of linen has thrown us into. 
Look at it seriously, from any point of view, and it dis- 
arranges all our former theories and facts. I tell, you 
Dick, the more I look at it, the more I think that both 
the anonymous letter and identified kerchief w^'ere 7nea?i/ 
to nonplus and mislead us." 

On the evening of this same day, Charley Brian and 
his sister were together in his office; Rene was looking 
impatient, and her brother, who had stolen an hour from 
his busiest afternoon to consult with a friend upon a 
very important personal matter, personal particularly to 
pretty Rene, was now hastening to complete a needed 
bit of copy for the next morning’s issue. 

“Tired of waiting, sis?” asked the young editor, closing 
his ink bottle and gathering up the scattered sheets 
of manuscript. “But I need not ask that, I suppose Ken 
is waiting. But you might haye gone on ” 

“Without not to-night, Chari — how could yon," 

Brian laughed as he arose and stretched himself, 
“well I’m with you at last. The thing did seem out- 
rageously long; put on your wraps, Puss,” and he turned 
the key in the desk at his side and took his hat from its 
hook. 

“Rat tat tat.” Rene’s face clouded instantly. "Oh 
dear!" she ejaculated and then catching her brother’s arm 


CARNES MISSES A CLUE 


379 


said, before he could call out the usual "come in: " 

"Chari, if it’s any one on business I will go on;” her 
brother nodded and called upon the visitor to enter. 
But his own face had clouded. 

"I’ll make short work of whoever it may be, sister,” 
he half- whispered as the door opened slowly, and then 
he went forward to meet his visitor, while Rene 
slipped past them and out into the moonlight. Only a 
step however, then as someone confronted her and put 
out a hand with the assured air of a proprietor, she 
caught her breath, and then cried softly: 

"Oh Ken! It is you! How could you?" 

"How could I do what?” tucking her hand beneath his 
arm and turning away from the door. 

"Bring that man. Did yow bring him, Ken?” 

"I don’t understand, dear; I began to think something 
might be detaining Charlie, and I felt too impatient to 
wait.” 

"Oh,” she murmured quite satisfied now; "you were 
right; some one, some odious stranger came in upon us 
just at the last moment; and so I left them there.” 

Charlie Brian was the most affable of editors, but to- 
night he greeted his visitor with a preoccupied counte- 
nance and a faint and frigid smile. He had worked hard all 
the day to enable himself to give a small portion of it, and 
the hours of the evening, to his friend Kenneth Baring, 
who had returned from New Orleans quite unexpectedly, 
and taken himself and pretty Rene, as well as the Bar- 
ings upon the Hills, completely by storm. His visit was 
short, and he made no secret of his purpose. He had 
come a-wooing, and he meant to take the promise of Rene 
Brian back with him to the southern city where he was 
laboring hard to earn for himself a new name and build 
a new home independent of the Baring gold. 

There was much to be said, for Kenneth prized, next 


380 


A SLENDER CLUE 


to the love of the sister, the friendship of the brother; 
and time was flying, for to-morrow he was to turn his 
face southward, after paying a flying visit to the city 
where he must investigate certain new inventions in sur- 
gery, for young Baring was studying medicine and surgery 
under the tutelage of one of the brightest and kindliest 
masters of the healing art to be found in all New Or- 
leans. 

At another time perhaps, Rufus Carnes and Charlie 
Brian might have found in each other congenial spirits, 
but to-night the editor^s thoughts were intent upon his 
sister and his friend, and Carnes appeared to him only 
as an intruder whom he must hear politely,, and, if pos- 
sible, dismiss speedily. 

At any other time he would have felt and manifested 
more sympathy and interest in the fate of Bertha War- 
ham and her step-mother, but to-night, with his mind 
full of his beautiful sister and her new happiness, the 
name of this other lost and wayward girl came as an un- 
pleasant shock; he wanted to keep them apart, and to the 
end he felt that he must not go too deeply into the 
detective^ s business; he must not "let himself go.” 

He listened to Carnes’ story; it was told briefly, with 
chill interest, and took the anonymous letter without 
comment. But when he had read it, he pondered a mo- 
ment, and then read it again. 

“Pardon me,” he said, then, with less frigidity, and 
more interest, “may I ask just what you expect to learn 
from me— just what you suspect, or hope, from this in- 
quiry?” 

“My errand should be patent to you, I think; I want 
to find the author of this missive. I fancy he may not 
have told the whole story.” 

“But the letter says distinctly that the writer has 
gone. ” 


CARNES MISSES A CLUE 


38 


“The man who writes an anonymous letter might well 
indulge in some fiction of that sort, to protect his incog' 
nito, ’’ said Carnes with a smile. 

“Oh! and you think that the writer of this letter is 
still in Roseville?” 

“I think it possible." 

Brian glanced at the letter, which he still held, for 
the third time; then he handed it back to the detective. 

"I wish I could help you,” he said; “but I know of no 
one living in Rosevillo who, to my knowledge, ever 
knew, either this man Joe Larsen or Bertha Warham. 
The letter, to me, looks like a genuine, honest effort, to 
tell you the little known to the writer; and at the 
same time to protect himself from further trouble, or 
annoyance, in the case. You must admit that, to a 
stranger, one who may, at this time, be hundreds of 
miles away, the possibility of a legal summons, with all 
its attendant hinderances, -its absolute business losses, 
perhaps, such a letter as this might have seemed a 
simple and easy way to tell all that he knew, to ease 
his conscience, and yet protect himself from those 
pecilliar courtesies which the law sometimes pays a re- 
luctant and innocent witness at a distance." 

“And this is all you will say?" 

“It is all I can say. As you have said, the writing is 
disguised, and well disguised. I cannot recognize it. I 
never saw this writing. It is my belief that it is an 
honest letter; that the writer has told you all that he 
knows. " 

Carnes stuffed the letter back into his pocket and 
arose. 

“In my experience," he said, “an anonymous letter 
that is honest from first to last, that has nothing sinis- 
ter, or tricky, in word or motive, that does not conceal 
more more than it tells, is a thing unknown." He took 


A SLENDER CLUE 


his hat and moved back. “However, I see that I have 
your ultimatum; I shall get no further information from 
you.” He paused for just a perceptible moment, and 
their eyes met; those of Carnes were full of meaning, 
while Brian’s met them clear, calm, baffling. 

“You /lave my ultimatum, certainly,” he said, bowing 
his visitor out while he spoke. “Of anonymous letters 
I have had little experience." 

So they separated, and Carnes went back to the little 
hotel, vexed and none the wiser, little dreaming that, 
for the first time he had been within a hand’s reach of 
a promising clue. 

Late that night, when Kenneth Baring had said his 
good-bye and gone away conqueror, leaving his fair 
betrothed at once happy and sad, and with no desire 
to go to her room, and to sleep, Brian, sitting beside 
her, weary yet willingly waiting her pleasure, and fully 
in sympathy with her mood, bethought him to tell her 
of his visitor. 

Rene listened, in evident sympathy with the detective 
and his search. ^ 

“What a pity!” she said at the last. “How I wis/i 
you could have given him some help, some clue! " 

Brian smiled. 

“I could not,” he said, “but if I am assured that you 
won’t betray me to the detective, I will give you — a clue.” 

“A clue? Charlie Brian! Do you know who wrote that 
letter? ” 

"No, sis, I don’t ktiow. But I shrewdly guess that it 
may have been — ” 

“Whom?” 

“It’s to be a secret, mind.” 

“Of course! /shan’t run out after this detective.” 

“Well, I think that our friend Jermyn, feeling anx- 
ious to put the little that- he knows where it might 


389 


CARNES MISSES A CLUE 

be of use, and 5'et more anxious not to be annoyed 
further, perhaps in the midst of his honeymoon, may 
have taken this way to enlighten the police. I call it 
very considerate in him. It is what I might have done 
myself — under like circumstances.” 

“Like circumstances! what do 7^??/ know of the circum- 
stances? do you mean to say that he saw — ” 

“He saw — something, and, considering all things, I 
thinly;, he deserves high praise. Even on his wedding- 
day he could not forget that he might say ‘a word in 
season,' and help out justice.” 

Rene seemed to have grown suddenly sleepy. 

“If you are going to extol him, brother mine, I will 
even hie me to my repose. Mr. Jermyn is capable of 
stranger things than these, mark me, sir. ” 

The next morning saw the two detectives on their 
return journey, and by the same train went Kenneth 
Baring; all were smokers, and as Carnes was in an un- 
social mood Stanhope after a time found himself next 
to young Baring and chatting freely with him. That 
two such natures should fraternize was a matter of course. 
Stanhope had witnessed Baring's farewell with Charles 
Brian, and knew him for a “Baring of the Hills,” and 
Brian had pointed out Carnes to his friend and men- 
tioned his visit of the previous night. After a few 
desultory remarks had be^i exchanged. Baring said: “If 
you will allow me to introduce myself, I would be glad 
to talk with you upon the subject which I understand 
has interested yourself and your friend here, to the ex- 
tent of bringing you to Roseville. Do you prefer to 
keep yourself mcog, — or — " 

Stanhope broke in with a frank laugh, "excuse my 
interruption, Mr. Baring, you see I already know you. 
And for myself, I have no reason for desiring to hold 


384 


A SLENDER CLUE 


m3''self incog, jusi now, if I could. My friend and I have 
been looking into a little matter connected with the War- 
harn affair, and there has been no especial attempt at 
secrecy; it^s only in romance that you find the detective 
always posing as a mystery; an open course is often a 
winning one, in real life, and if you have any ideas to 
air, or if you know any of these parties — why, fire away, 
go ahead. I’m a good listener.” 

Baring laughed in his turn. “You take me up with a 
vengeance,” he said. "I knew none of the parties, and I 
only saw Bertha Warham once, and that nearly four 
years ago, when she was hardly more than a child." 

"Oh! Tell me about it; how did she impress you 
then? if at all. ” 

"She did impress me, decidedly; it was at a party — a 
regular country merry-making. Probably she was the 
youngest girl there, certainly she was the prettiest, and 
she showed us a sample of her spirit that night." 

"In what way?" 

"I will tell you it, just as I saw it: I was standing 
with a group of young people, all chatting gayly while 
waiting for our various conveyances to be brought to 
the door; it was at the close of the party. It had 
chanced that I had not been presented to the little 
beauty; she was too fully monopolized to leave a chance 
for me; I was, in fact, a stranger, and looker-on. But 
she happened to be standing '^ery near me, and was talk- 
ing and laughing merril}^, when a big fellow, muffled 
and ready for the road, made his wa^^ among us and we 
all knew, at once, that he was under the influence of 
liquor. He came close to Miss Warham and said very 
brusquely: ‘Ready to go home?’ Quick as thought she 
whirled about and faced him. T am ready to go home,’ 
she said haughtily but not with you! Sta^id aside R He 
was between her and the door, but he fell back as if 


CyfRNES MISSES A CLUE 


385 


he were dazed, and the girl went past him, past all of 
us, like an enraged princess. She did not hasten, nor 
look to left or right. The fellow broke into a string of 
oaths, and someone half -led, half -dragged him intp 
another room just as my companions called me with the 
others of our party.” 

“And did you never hear the sequel? or who the fellow 
was?” 

‘T think, without doubt, it was Larsen. Afterward I 
was told that he had pledged himself not to drink while 
in her company, and she had warned him what the result 
would be if he failed to keep his word.” 

“And that,” said Stanhope in a murmuring tone, “was 
Bertha Warham in her early teens.” Then, after a 
moment of silence, “and you never saw her again?” 

“I never saw her again.” 

When the two parted upon reaching the city they 
shook hands warmly and Baring proffered his New Or- 
leans address. “We may meet again,” he said. “Perhaps 
some time I may even be of some use to you; at 
any rate, should you want to see me, this will tell you 
where to look me up." 

And now began another period of vexation and tedious- 
ness for our friends Carnes and Stanliope. To visit 
Joseph Larsen, to watch Sharp and his men, to keep an 
eye upon everything and everybody in the remotest way 
connected with the Warham mystery, was all that seemed 
open to them; and with all their vigilance they could 
hit upon no new fact, possibility or hope. Bertha 
Warham’s picture had been sent in many directions, and 
after a week or more letters of acknowledgment, letters 
accepting the commission and letters rejecting it, began 
to come in, but no one had seen Bertha Warham; no 
one could give newa of her, 


386 


A SLENDER CLUE 


One of the first to reply to a letter which had inclosed 
one of the pictures of the missing one was a certain 
reporter resident in Philadelphia, and by name Luis 
Moses. 

* Mr. Moses’ card had been given Stanhope by a city 
reporter who knew him in a business way, and it was 
Stanhope who had addressed him on the subject of the 
search. 

Mr. Moses had received Mr. Stanhope’s “interesting” 
letter and in any other way would be glad to oblige a 
gentleman “of whom he had heard so favorably,” but he 
“must beg to be excused; under no circumstances could he 
so far stretch the limits of his profession as to lend a 
hand in the pursuit of a young woman, whatever her 
fault or crime. ” In his capacity of reporter for the "Even- 
ing Hailstorm " however, he would willingly, "most will- 
ingly,” report the affair fully and completely when Mr. 
Stanhope should see fit to intrust him with a matter 
which of course he “looked upon, until otherwise in 
formed, as a secret of the officers of the law.” 

And Mr. Moses was “Fraternally yours, etc., Luis 
Moses.” 

“That Jew is a fraud,” pronounced Carnes contemptu- 
ously when Stanhope read him this letter. I’m willing to 
bet something that he is a reporter for what there is in 
it, and don’t you forget it. I notice that he don’t send 
back the picture of that ‘young woman.’” 

“I notice that they all forget to send back the ‘young 
woman’s picture,’” said Dick tossing the letter aside with 
careless indifference. “Well, Mr. Moses is only one 
little reporter in a city full of them, so we will thank 
him for the proffer of his reportorial pen, and say good- 
bye to him.” 

But they had not heard the last of Mr. Luis Moses. 

Almost a month had passed since the arrival of his 


CARNES MISSES A CLUE 


38 ? 


polite refusal to overstep the limits of his profession 
when a second letter came and was at once recognized 
by Stanhope as from Mr. Moses. 

He opened it with an air of indifference, which changed 
to a look of interest as he scanned the page, and. a pe- 
rusal of the whole sent him off in hot haste in search of 
his friend. 

Mr. Moses’ second letter was very unlike his first. 

"My Dear Mr. Stanhope " so it began in a neat and very 
lady-like hand, neater, if that could be, than was the 
first. "Since writing you last a strange thing has hap- 
pened; I have seen the lady of whom you are in search, 
/ am sure of it, and my eyes are very good ones. Upoh 
reflection I decide that I may have mistaken my duty 
in this case. In explanation of my change of conduct, 
will only say here that, in thinking of the young 
woman you wish to find, I pictured her as poor, hunted, 
oppressed perhaps. 

"The lady who answers perfectly to your description 
and is the counterpart of the picture, I saw in an opera- ^ 
box, dressed in satin, loaded with diamonds, surrounded 
by a gay party of friends. I think you will do well to 
come on, for although I could not trace her home, I hope 
through some member of the party with which I saw 
her, to find out everything you may wish to know; more 
it would be unwise to write, but under the changed 
circumstances, I am yours to command, 

"Luis Moses.” 

Having listened to the reading of this, Carnes once 
again volunteered an opinion of Mr. Moses. 

"That Jew has almost showed his hand. He’s a 
sheeny, and he scents a fat 'settler’ from somebody. 
You’ll have to go, Dick, but look out for Sheeny 
Moses. " 

26 


388 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Stanhope laughed. “Pm greatl)^ obliged to Sheeny 
Moses, if he puts me upon anything like the ghost of a 
track; I won’t ask him to strain his tender conscience, 
once he puts me upon the trace of my lady. Don’t be 
too hard upon the fellow, Rufe; these 'literary con- 
sciences’ are tender things.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


"sheeny” MOSES 

Already Stanhope was feeling elated: He had wearied 
of the dull round of watching and waiting, and welcomed 
anything that should set him in motion once more. The 
first train outward bound for the east that evening car- 
ried Stanhope still a dapper young man, though not the 
dapper young man that his best friends knew, to Phila- 
delphia. 

He found Moses without difficulty, but the first 
look into the face of the soft-spoken, deprecating little 
Jew, told Stanhope that ail was not well with his quest. 

Clearly Mr. Moses had not looked for so prompt and 
persona] a reply to his second letter, and his first words 
of welcome tripped, and fell over each other, a mass of 
confusion. 

Moses was the typical Jew, with the difference that he 
affected not to be one, and upon all possible occasions 
ignored his nationality and his brethren. 

He was overwhelming with his regrets and apologies, 
and he poured out the story of his two letters, regard- 
less of question or comment. 

Briefly, this was the story — Mr. Moses did not tell it 
briefly : 

He had chanced to be at the opera on a certain night 
when all the world was out, and he had been ushered 
into an especially cozy corner of a box, which, on this 
night, an opening night, had been reserved for members 
of the press. Opposite him and clearly in sight, was a 

389 


890 


A SLENDER CLUE 


party; several gentlemen were in the box, and three 
ladies. One of these ladies was a large, plump, “German- 
looking" blonde; the second was a little girl, neither 
blonde or brunette. And the third — well, at first 
glance Mr. Moses was startled. Then he remembered 
that he had with him at that moment, “quite by chance, ” 
the picture sent him by Mr. Stanhope; he compared 
the picture with the third lady and was more than ever 
startled; he had not thought of looking for Mr. Stan- 
hope’s missing girl among the elite of the city, and 
yet, he was so amazed, the resemblance was so strongs 
that he had lost his head; that was really his only ex- 
planation for his heedless, hasty summons. He had 
really believed, at the time, that he could fi7id this lady 
again and that she was the original of the picture. 

“And you wish me to understand that you have not 
found her?” Stanhope managed to thrust in at this 
point. 

“Alas, Meester Stanhope, if you ’ad not left the ceety 
so sutten after reeting my letter. For 1 wrote again, 
a third time, and tolt you how it was." 

“How it was? according to your second letter it was 
to be quite simple and easy; you were to trace the lady 
through one of the men in the box with her; someone 
you know. ” 

“My cracious, deed I say such a thing as that?" 

“Something very much like that." 

“Oh! I moost of peen vild." Mr. Moses’ accent of 
the fatherland increased with his excitement, and fell 
from him as he grew calmer. “Just vait ; let me tell you 
apout how it all vas. " 

“Go on, then,” curtly. 

“As I said, I was sure it vas the original of the pict- 
ure and after I had looket and looket, till I felt yet 
more sure, 1 began to look over -the gentlemen; there 


‘SHEENY^' MOSES 


891 


were four or five, and one of them I recognize! not as 
an acquaintance^ but as a man I had seen often at the 
Arcate; I knew him as a regular luncher there, and a 
frequent tiner, and I felt sure I could approach him 
and 4ind oud the name of the lady; you see?” he 
finished eagerly. He had begun deliberately, like one 
who knows what he is about to say. But Stanhope’s 
steady eye, resting upon his face with cynical sternness, 
seemed to cause him uneasiness. 

”1 — see, ahem! — yes." 

"Veil, the next day early, 1 went to the Arcate, and 
sat there till lunch time and vaited. He didn’t come, 
and I went there for dinner; next day I tried aken,” 
he was playing with his dangling watch-guard and could 
no longer meet the detective’s eye. ‘‘But all day he neffer 
showed himself; then b got arount the waiter that often 
stoot at his table and asked about him just as if I knew 
him — who he vas^ you know. Veil, sir, what to you 
think?” He gave himself a nervous shake and jumped up 
from his chair. 

"Never mind what I thmk — finish your story.” 

"Well sir the gentleman had left town pefore daylight 
on the ferry moment after I had seen him hat the opera. ” 

‘‘Really! did the lady go with him?” 

Mr. Moses blushed scarlet. “Sir! ” he spluttered, "do 
you toubt me, sir?” 

"Doubt you. Oh, no. Is that the end of your story?” 

"The gentleman being gone, I had no other way of 
finding out about the lady, and then I wrote at once — to 
you. ” 

"Thanks — very much;” Stanhope arose like one whose 
business is at an end. "Now, I’ll trouble you to return 
me the photograph of the missing lady. It might cause 
you another troublesome surprise should you retain it." 

The reporter started visibly, and was silent a moment; 


393 


A SLENDER CLUE 


then he said; “I’m sorry really, but really, the truth is, 
I was so disgusted when I found myself so paffled that 
I tore the picture to pieces and threw them into the 
waste-basket. ” 

'"Indeed! then, Mr. Moses, I will wish you good morn- 
ing; possibly 1 may succeed better in finding this lady, ” 
and, much to the reporter’s surprise, he turned and 
walked away without so much as a backward glance. 
Moses stared after him a moment and then struck his 
stubby fist upon the table at his side. 

“Damn him! ’’ he muttered; “I wonder what the fellow 
is going to do.” 

For two da37s Stanhope was very busy. On the 
morning of the third he appeared again before Mr. 
Moses, 

This morning the reporter was quite himself — at first. 
He received his guest volubly and proffered him the 
best of his two shabby bedroom chairs. 

“Thank you — no,” said Stanhope. “I am leaving the 
city this morning, and my errand is brief. It is only a 
little caution I wish to give you; and it may need a few 
words in explanation; when I came here, in answer to 
your letter, and heard your little story, I was a trifle 
puzzled to know precisely where the fiction began, and 
surmised it to be very near the beginning. Now I never 
leave a little simple conundrum like that — quite within 
my humble reach — unsolved, unless matters more impor- 
tant intervene; so 1 set out at once to look up and pull to 
pieces your bits of patchwork— . 

“Really, sir — ” began the reporter. 

“Don’t interrupt me, please; you have already occu- 
pied too much of my time. Well, sir, I find that you 
did see a lady resembling closely the lady of the photo- 
graph which you so foolishly destroyed, and that your 
description of the entire party was correct. I am also 


^^SHEENY^^ MOSES 


393 


informed that you did make an effort to learn, from the 
ushers and the managers, the identity of the lady.” 

“Oh! — ” again began Moses. 

"Exactly. The ushers could remember nothing; they 
were new to the city, as was also the manager — ” 

"Yes, yes.” 

"Yes. I also traced you to the Arcadia, and here our 
experiences, your report and my investigation cease to 
agree.” 

"Vat — vat?" the reporter’s face flushed darkly. 

"Don’t excite yourself. I chanced to find a waiter 
who, while he did not know the name of your friend of 
the opera-box, knew he was an habitual diner. He re- 
called distinctly your conversation with him, for a very 
good reason; he was idle at the moment, and, after see- 
ing your approach, the meeting was fixed in his memory 
by seeing the gentleman, who was about to dine, sefid 
back his dinner, and arise and go out with you — ” Stan- 
hope moved a step forward, and his tone became stern: 

"Now, Mr. Moses, what is your little game?” 

"My came! Goot heavens! I tell you, sir; this is a 
meestake entirely. I did not see the man; your vaiter is 
all wrong. He has meestook me for somepoddy else!” 

"Don’t waste words, Moses; that waiter has taken a 
good look at you and is ready to swear to you.” 

"Put I say no! I tells you — " 

"You may say anything. Now, my friend, in my pro- 
fession I have learned a little about the human counte- 
nance, and I read in yours, secretiveness and obstinacy 
of a certain kind, together with certain other, not very 
lovely traits. You do not intend to tell me the truth of 
this matter. I did not expect it of you. You have some- 
thing at 'stake; have already accepted a bribe, doubt- 
less; for, know, my friend, your friend of the restaurant 
has disappeared; I have learned so much. And now 


394 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Mr. Moses, although you did not intend it, you have 
done me a service. You have put me upon a trail 
which may lead to much; as a repayment I will give 
you a word of advice and warning: Don’t have anymore 
shady dealings with this gentleman of the opera-box, 
for — really I felt that I must — I have just mentioned 
your little transaction with me to the chief of police, 
and you will be very carefully looked after. There, 
don’t get in a rage; you will not be annoyed so long as 
you hold to a straight course; but don’t fall into any 
little temptations, and do not seek further for the miss- 
ing lady — leave that to me." 

Homeward-bound and lounging luxuriously in the 
palace sleeper of the fast westward mail. Stanhope 
mused and chuckled to himself. 

“Perhaps I was a bit rough on the poor little report- 
er," he said to himself. "Really he has done well by 
me, whatever he might have intended. He has given 
me a brand-new clue to follow, and waked up a very 
queer train of ideas. I must talk them over with Carnes 
right away.” 

But he did not. Upon reaching home, he found that 
the "Warham Case" had turned a new leaf in its history, 
thanks to Sharp & Company. 

He also found a telegram from New York which said: 

"Found a starter, come on, Jones. 

At midnight he was on his way to New York. 


CHAPTEl^ XXXIX 


FOUND A VICTIM 

"Get up out of that corner, Tim, and stir yourself! how 
you can sleep like a cat or a pig in such a hot place as 
that I don’t seel right in the blazing sun! Get me some 
chips, or something to start the kettle with; here 
comes our white-faced drunkard.” 

They called it a home, the people who occupied it — a 
little tumble-down frame building, originally intended 
perhaps for a small — a very small stably — but converted 
by the march of progress and the needs of the poor, 
into a dwelling — such a dwelling! Two tiny rooms with 
one window in each, a door of entrance at the front, a 
connecting door and a door of exit at the back. Such 
furniture! a rickety table, a few broken-backed chairs, 
some fragments of crockery, a bed, old, and scant, and 
ragged, in the rear room, and no covering for the floors, 
save a plentiful overlay of dirt. 

The woman who spoke was of middle age, unkempt 
and squalid, but with an evident attempt at youthful- 
ness visible through the rags and dirt. The boy, who 
4ooked like a very vicious little Italian, scrambled to 
his feet and began to dig his eyes with his knuckles. 

“Ye’re always wantin’ somethin’,” he whined. “I can’t 
never git no sleep!” 

“That you can’t, in broad daylight, /don’t sleep.” 

“I allays wants to sleep when I’m hungry;” howled 
the boy, “and I’m awful hungry now.” 

“Well well! Charley’s cornin’, don’t I tell you, and 

395 


396 


A SLENDER CLUE 


ain’t I goin’ to boil the kettle, if ever you get the chips? 
rustle now! ’’ 

As the boy went out through the door of exit, a bump 
ing, thumping sound came from the door of entrance, and 
the woman opened it with a jerk. 

"Oh it’s you, good-for-naught, ” she said, as a man 
stumbled up the one step that led into the room. "I 
thought you had left the country, or found some rich 
relations; where have been? " 

She made an effort to call up an affectionate smile, 
but it was only a wink, and the man did not seem im- 
pressed by it. 

"There’s not much use in coming to you, Fan, with a 
hole in one’s pocket. It’s only desperate lonesomeness 
that’s brought me now." 

"Lonesomeness! Charlie Jinkins, do you mean to tell 
me that you’re brokef" 

"That’s wliat I mean," said the man surlily. He was 
younger than the wom-an by at least ten years, and -al- 
though dissipation and hardship had wrought havoc with 
a face that might have been handsome, even aristocratic, 
his speech and manner yet retained some traces of re- 
finement. 

The woman sat down and looked at him fixedly; he 
had already dropped heavily upon a chair in the corner 
farthest from the window. 

"Charlie Jinkins," she said severely, "do you know 
that there is not a mouthful in this house?" 

"I have not eaten a mouthful since yesterday noon, " he 
said by way of answer. 

"Well you’ve found something to drink, that’s evi- 
dent enough. I suppose you paid your last dime for 
whisky.” 

"Yes,” he assented. "My last dime." 

They, were a pair of social outlaws. The woman had 


FOUND A VICTIM 


397 


been, in her youth and far into maturity, a rider in the 
circus arena, and later, a driver in the ‘Roman Chariot* 
races, but she had not been prudent, and now, in her 
poverty — for at her time of life, to live by her wits, as 
she did, meant poverty — she could only console herself 
by looking back over the path she had trod, regretting 
that those halcyon days were gone; for that they were hal- 
cyon days, and that life in the arena was the best life 
to live, she never for one moment doubted. In some 
way the boy Tim, a homeless waif upon the street, had 
drifted to her door, and she had taken him in and made 
him useful; she had even dreamed wildly of training 
him, and taking him “upon the road” as a little athlete. 
But Tim was not teachable; he developed a talent for the 
consumption of bread and molasses, and dutch sausage, 
and confined his gymnastic exercises to the street; and 
his mistress, in a fit of economy and disgust, was about 
to turn him-adrift, when she fell sick, and found in little, 
cross Tim her only earthly friend. They almost starved 
together, but she did not again threaten the boy with 
exile. She first saw the man whom she affectionately 
called the white-faced drunkard, at the top of a flight of 
steep stairs, that led up outside of the building, to the 
second floor of an abandoned warehouse, close by her 
domicile. He was very drunk, and was swaying to and 
fro upon the tiny platform at the top of the stairs; while 
she gazed, wondering how so tipsy a fellow ever man- 
aged to climb that steep flight, and interested to know 
how he would get down, when he illustrated his method 
by staggering, toppling, clutching at the rotten railing, 
which broke beneath his weight, and falling headlong 
straight into the mud of the alley below. 

“A sober man would have broken his neck,” said the 
ex-equestrienne when she, with Tim, ran out to his assist- 
ance. “Wefll have to take him in, Tim; there’s no 


398 


A SLENDER CLUE 


one else to do it;” she had noted even as he lay there in 
the mud, that his face was prepossessing, and his clothes 
although shabby, well made and of good quality. 

They took him in, and from that day their queer 
friendship dated. He told her that he was a drunkard 
and a total wreck, and that she might call him Charlie 
if she liked, which she did, and as he had not provided 
her with another name, she christened him Jinkins, in a 
facetious mood, and fell into the habit of calling him 
‘‘Mr. Charlie Jinkins,” when she wished to be emphatic. 

It was upon the pocket of Mr. Charlie Jinkins, that 
they now mainly depended for their comforts, and of 
late, the appearance of hunger, and of Charlie Jinkins 
was not always simultaneous. As . she sat before him, 
looking at him so steadil}^, a sickly half-smile flitted 
over his face, which was rudd}’ when sober, pale when 
half-drunk, and ashen when wholly intoxicated. They 
were both hungry, but they were both good matured. 

‘‘Charlie Jinkins,”. she said slowly, “you make me 
tired! where are all your heir-looms?” 

‘‘Spouted. ” 

•'Aiir 

He reddened and looked about him uneasily. “Where’s 
Tim?” he asked. 

“Gone out after chips.” 

“Tve got just one thing left, Fan,” he said with great 
show of drunken caution, “just one thing, an’ I kind o’ 
hate to part with it. It’s awfully unsafe for a fellow like 
me to go to a pawnshop with anything valuable.” 

“Why, you didn’t kill anybody to get it did you?” she 
asked contemptously. 

The man turned ashen pale. “Don’t you talk like 
that. Fan,” he said resentfully. “I — I don’t like it.” 

She drew her chair toward him, and passing by his 
remark, said coaxingly: “Come, Charlie, what have you 


FOUND A VICTIM 


399 


got? /V/risk the uncles; say now, I know just where to 
go. I’ll go with you; we can’t starvt^ Charlie Boy." 

She leaned toward him and gave his hand a caressing 
pat. 

"Fan,” he took her hand and held it while two maud- 
lin tears crept down his cheeks, "Fan, you’re the 
only friend I’ve got. You’ve been like — like — " 

"Like a grandmother, haven’t I, Chari — , well now, 
don’t let your grandmother starve.” 

"I won’t,” he said huskily, and letting two more big" 
tears escape, while he began fumbling about his person. 
"I’ll take this. Fan,” he drew forth a small thing 
wrapped in many papers, and put it in her hand. 

She began at once to pull off the papers and then ut- 
tered an exclamation as she held up to view a lady’s ear- 
ring, large and heavy, with a setting of genuine Cameo. 

"It’s good!” "she cried; "it’s real good! and a beauty 
too! why, Charlie!” 

This last was an exclamation of remonstrance; he had 
struck down the hand which held the jewel aloft, and 
was holding it covered with his own. 

"Don’t do that," he said. "You mustn’t — mustn’t let 
any one see.” 

"I’ll let old Moss see, and pretty quick too,” she cried, 
jumping up and beginning to put on a shabby hat and 
faded shawl. 

"Ah, Charlie, if we could only afford to haggle, but we 
can’t; we want to eat. Come along, you needn’ t be afraid 
of old Moss. He never asks questions. I’ll go to the 
alley with you and wait outside.” 

"The alley!” ejaculated the man getting up and bal- 
ancing himself upon his legs, "it’s always an alley ! Once 
upon a time I didn’t know what an alley was. Come 
along. Fan.” 


CHAPTER XL 


THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 

The ex-equestrienne stooped and picked up his dilapi- 
dated hat, which he had dropped upon the floor, and as 
she arose her eye caught the moving figure of Tim in the 
rear room; he was standing at the door of exit, with a 
hand upon the latch. He might be just going out, or 
just coming in. 

"Tim,” she said sharply, "have you just come?” 

■ "Umph !” 

"Where are your chips?" 

"Couldn’t find ’um,” said Tim beginning at once to 
whimper. "You alius think I can find everything." 

"No, I don’t, but I think you can eat all / can find. 
Since you are in you can stay in, until we come back; 
we’re going after some supper. Come, Charlie. " 

When they were gone, the boy Tim came softly into 
the front room, and looked out of the window, then 
slipped quietly out through the door of exit, and dodg- 
ing and ducking warily, followed Charlie and his mistress. 
Poor little Tim, his is the errand of Judas; with his 
dirty little fists clinched in the pockets of his ragged 
jacket, his small old face fairly wolfish in its intensity 
and greed, as he runs, dodges, starts, stops, always 
keeping an eye upon the pair who hurry on unconscious 
of his nearness, he is the embodiment of malice, ava- 
rice, greed. But he embodies also the sins of a profli- 
gate father, an unloving and inhuman mother, whose own 
hand cast him a waif upon the street, and of the care^ 

400 


THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 


401 


less philanthropy, the lukewarm Christianity, the indiffer- 
ence, the intolerance, the inhumanity of his fellow-man. 

Poor little Tim! When you stand at the throne of 
justice, before those eyes that mark even the sparrow’s 
fall, to answer for the sins of a desolate childhood, you 
shall not stand alone; and the voice that speaks from 
the throne shall say unto those who might have rescued 
you — yet passed you by — "Inasmuch as ye did it not 
unto the least of these my little ones, ye did it not to 
me. " 

Moss the pawnbroker was perched upon a high stool 
in his little dingy den, at the back of a still dingier 
shop, when Charlie Jinkins entered. The visitor’s hat 
was drawn well down over his face, and he seemed in 
haste; the walk had sobered him somewhat, but his 
hands trembled, as he passed his little packet over the 
narrow counter, and asked for a loan upon it. 

The pawnbroker took it and unrolled the paper in 
which it was carefully wrapped; there was a dingy calico 
curtain inclosing three sides of his den, opening upon 
a little box-like place upon either side, lined with close 
narrow shelves, which were the receptacles of the small- 
est and most valuable pawns; such light as they had 
came from above, except when, on very dark days, the 
old pawnbroker lighted upon each side a sputtering 
tallow candle. 

He had unrolled the paper slowly, and with an air of 
languid indifference, and had just dropped his eye upon 
the jewel it contained, when he started quickly and 
uttered a sharp "What’s that!" 

Charlie started too, and looked about him apprehen- 
sively. He had heard no sound and could see nothing 
around him. When he looked back through the pawnbrok- 
er’s window Moss had disappeared. Only for a moment 


402 


A SLENDER CLUE 


however, then he was back and clambering again upon 
his stool. 

“Them rats is the plaik of my life,” he said, as if in 
apology. “My lantlort says tey are only mice, put I 
know petter. Them lantlorts is a bad lot.” 

As Mr. Moss was his own landlord, this remark was 
not so uncharitable as it seemed. And this fictitious 
landlord was the “Mrs. Harris,” who had helped the 
wily pawnbroker over many difficult conversational 
chasms. During his moment behind the curtain, Mr. 
Moss had found time to scrutinize the jewel closely, and 
to hold it up and compare it with a small photograph 
that was tacked upon one of the upright shelf supports. 
It was the photograph of an ear-ring, the counterpart 
of that which he held in his hand. 

When he was again upon his stool, Mr. Moss returned 
to business. 

“Let me see,” he had labored diligently to eradi- 
cate his Jewish accent, and he lapsed into it only 
at times when excitement hastened his speech. “Let 
me see, you want a loan on this; what is it?” he opened 
his grimy hand which had inclosed paper and jewel and 
laid them before him upon the counter. Then he shut 
one eye and seemed absorbed in contemplation of the 
proffered pawn. Again he threw up his head, uttered a 
sharp “Hey! " hopped down from his stool, and disap- 
peared, this time behind the curtain in the rear. 
This curtain concealed a door, the upper half of glass, 
and behind this door he could see, in a little dirty back 
room, a frowzy and fat Jewess reading a ragged and 
much-fingered novel, and a boy, a youthful counterpart 
of Moss himself, sitting upon the floor, engaged in 
teaching a lean dog to shake hands. 

“Mose, ” whispered the pawnbroker, coming in cau- 
tiously and softly closing the door. “Mose, you remem- 
ber Sharp? ’’ 



“ YOU WANT A LOAN ON THIS. WHAT LS IT ?-Slciider Clae.p. 403. 


-y - 






V 


•^r"' ' 










THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 


403 


The boy nodded. 

“I want you to go to him as fast as you can; tell him 
I’ve found the mate to the ear-ring, and to send some 
men quick. Hurry, Mose!” 

‘T haf everything to do," he explained when he again 
climbed upon his stool; "my boy that minds effery 
things outside is gone away." . 

He looked at the jewel again and then blandly across 
at the man waiting with evident anxiety. 

"This looks goot, ” he said; "it looks first-rate; how 
much for it?” 

"All I can get," said the hungry fellow. 

"Oh, well, if you want a close pargain, I hove to test 
this; if it is really good it’s worth something. ’Twill 
take only a few minutes; if you like you might come in- 
side and sit down; customers sometimes don’t like to 
come in when they sees anyone in the store; maype 
you’d better.” 

He indicated by a sign the little half-door just beyond 
the dingy lower curtain, and went to open it, ushering the 
hungry, half-dazed Charlie into his den, with a grin and 
an inward chuckle; it was literally the spider and the 
fly. 

When he had seated his fly upon a backless old chair, 
the spider began his test; it took bottles of queer colored 
liquids, several odd-shaped glasses, and some tiny 
brushes. 

Moss tested by a method of his own, promptly origi- 
nated for the emergency, and for every one of these arti- 
cles he had to hunt first behind one curtain, then behind 
the other; it was a very slow process, and the poor fly 
grew restless; he had no suspicion of the part the spider 
was playing, but he thought of the woman waiting for 
him around the corner, and he fancied her black eyes 
were beginning to snap. 


404 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Finally, when the spider dared no longer keep up his 
pretense, he turned to the fly, rubbing one hand softly 
over the other. 

“I find that very good material,” he said, smiling 
blandly. “Have you got its mate?” 

. Charlie shook his head and muttered something about 
it’s mate being lost. 

"Oh, ah! It’s too bad, too bad, such a nice piece of fam- 
ily jewelry; of course you will want to redeem it? or — 
vill 3 ^ou sell? I wouldn’t mind if 1 buy it right out, eh!” 

“How much," muttered the fly. 

“Well, really, maybe I could give you three dollars 
for that.” 

“Not enough,” said the fly sullenly. 

"Not enough? well may be I hadn’t better buy.” 

He took up the trinket again, held it up to the light, 
and began a dissertation upon the woes of pawnbrokers. 
He consumed full)^ five minutes in this way. Finally 
he said: "Well, I’ll give you five dollars.” 

The other got up and put out his hand. 

"Give it to me,” he said. 

The spider opened a drawer and began to fumble and 
peer. “Well, I never saw such luck,” he finally said. 
“I haf not five dollars in change. Only a ten bill. Wait, 
I’ll run out my back door and git some change.” Then 
he went to the curtain in the rear and bawled: 

“Sarah!” 

They heard a door open and shut, and then the frow- 
zy woman put her head between the curtains. 

“Sarah,” said the spider, “you just come in ant mint 
the shop, I’ve got to go after some change.” 

The spider went out and Sarah came in, and the poor, 
fly, glad that the bargain was done, sat in the web and 
patiently waited. 


CHAPTER XLI 


CIRCUS FAN "gets EVEN*’ 

The equestrienne waited near the corner until wait- 
ing became tedious. She grew first restless, then impa- 
tient, and last thoroughly angry. 

What was Charlie doing all these moments? surely 
not haggling over the price of that ear-drop! It was 
not like Charli-e to keep her waiting. She walked a 
short distance in one direction, and then a short dis- 
tance in the other, looking back now and then and care- 
ful to keep withirw sight of the pawn-shop door. 

A second time she repeated this walk, then as she 
turned for the third time, she saw coming toward her a 
familiar figure, the figure of the pawn-broker’s boy Mose. 
Two men were walking close at his heels, and all were 
moving toward her rapidly, the boy almost running, the 
men taking long strides. 

"Mose," she put out her hand as the boy was about to 
pass her, but he darted aside, and turning his head 
toward the men made them a significant gesture over 
his shoulder and ran ahead. 

The woman halted and stood looking after him until 
he had disappeared within the pawn-shop, then she 
started in the same direction — only a ' few steps, how- 
ever, and she halted again, a look of anxiety overspread- 
ing her face. The two men who were close at the heels 
of the boy had also entered the pawn-shop. 

There was something in their manner as they stopped, 
exchanged a word or two, and then went boldly in, look- 


406 


A SLENDER CLUE 


ing neither up nor downithe street, that carried convic- 
tion to the mind of the waiting woman: their gait and 
brisk air of business; the look of Mose, and his signifi- 
cant gesture — something had happened to Charlie Jinkins. 

And then it all made itself clear to her — Charlie^ s 
strange manner, his reluctance lo pawn the jewel, his 
reticence, his nervousness, his air — which until his 
pocket became empty she had thought and cared little 
about — of having always something to conceal; she was 
old in the ways of the world and its wickedness, and 
although she had little conscience she had great caution. 

In the six months that their friendship had endured, 
the lonely, friendless unfortunate had formed an odd 
attachment for the luckless drunken wight who had 
fallen into her hands; he was always amiable, always 
generous; and there still clung about him a remnant of 
refinement and respectful courtesy, tliat was very pleas- 
ant, quite novel and interesting, to the woman whose life 
had known little of these graces. 

‘‘Charlie Jinkins has seen better days,” she was fond of 
saying to herself and to little Tim. But when she 
questioned him about his past, and her tongue was bri- 
dled by no scruples of delicacy, he sometimes smiled, 
sometimes let fall a maudlin tear; but he never gave 
her a satisfactory answer. 

Tempering her friendship with caution, she loitered 
past the pawn-broker’s door, peering in as she passed; 
but nothing was visible through the begrimed ‘‘half- 
windows," and no sound could be heard from within. 
She went slowly^to the street corner, crossed over, and 
began a slow promenade up the other side. As she came 
opposite the place of interest, the door flew open, and 
the boy Mose dashed out and away; but the woman now 
manifested no desire to overtake or question him. She 
stopped and looked in at some dingy shop windows, and 


CIRCUS FAN ^^GETS EFEN'^ 


407 


so made her way slowly to the farthest corner phere 
she paused, clapped her hand to her empty pocket, and 
went through, for the benefit of any chance observer, 
with a little pantomime of dismay; then she turned 
sharply, and went slowly back", with her eyes searching 
the pavement, like one who has lost something. 

When she was again half-way down the block, a hack 
came rapidly around the nearest corner, and drew, rat- 
tling up before the door of the pawn-shop with Mose 
upon the box beside the driver. The boy swung himself 
down and vanished behind the low door, which opened 
again in a moment, for the two business-like men who 
were now more business-like than at first, and between 
them, writhing, struggling, beseeching, half-led, half- 
dragged, was Charlie Jinkins. 

When the two men with their prisoner had entered 
the carriage and driven away, the woman crossed the 
street with a firm step and entered the den of the spider. 

Already the frouzy woman had gone back to her novel, 
and the spider was sitting at his desk, leaning his chin 
upon his hand, and smiling into vacancy like one who, 
for once, has done his duty, and finds the contemplation 
of the deed surprisingly pleasant. 

He raised his head as the sound of swift heels ap- 
proached his curtained lair, and started slightly at sight 
of the woman Fan. 

“Moss,” she said sharply, “Fve done you a good turn 
before now, and I want you to do me one, and not lie 
nor waste any words. You know me pretty well; I don’t 
believe you want me for your enemy.” 

"Why, my dear,” quavered Moss apprehensively, 
“what’s gone wrong?” 

“Nothing,” said Fan shortly; “only I want some infor- 
mation. Who was that man that was taken out of here, 
and who were the men who took him?” 


408 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Why, my dear — " began the spider. 

"Moss, I haven’t two minutes more to waste on you. 
Out with it.” 

‘‘My dear,” quavered the old rascal, "I’m very willing 
to tell you; I don’t know who the man was, but he 
brought me an ear-ring like one that Sharp and his men 
are looking after. I had my orders, and I didn’t dare 
trifle with Sharp and his men; I’m telling you the truth; 
I sent m\^ Mose to Sharp’s, and he sent two men to take 
the fellow away.” 

‘‘What was the charge against him?” 

"O, gracious! I don’t know.” 

"Moss,” she said contemptuously, “it’s my opinion that 
you lie. But never mind that; you’ll oblige me with the 
loan of a dollar, won’t you?” 

"Why, Fan — why yes, to be sure! one tollar, yes.'' 

"I’ll settle with you, you old reprobate!” muttered the 
woman as she went swiftly homeward. "All in good time 
I’ll show you what it is to cross the path of Circus Fan!” 

And she did; circumspect even in her rage, she waited 
a week, then she scrawled the following note and sent 
it to Station A. 

"If the police are anxious to know where some of the 
goods stolen from B — & Co., K — street, K — ’s jewelry 
house, and other places lately robbed, are concealed, let 
them go to Moss th^ pawnbroker’s, on ‘Black alley’ near 
the old Vicks Theater, search behind the curtains for ihe 
trap in the floor. One who Knows.” 

As the result of this missive. Moss, who had long been 
an object of suspicion, was visited, the trap discovered, 
a large quantity of stolen goods identified, the pawn- 
shop closed, and the spider thrown into prison to await 
a long and tedious process of law. 

Fan and the officers had done their work swiftly and 
well, but justice — American justice — alas! too often is 
lame and halt and well nigh blind. 


CHAPTER XLII 


AN EMBRYO JUDAS 

The boy, Tim, knew little of Sharp and his agency, 
but he knew where Captain B — ’s headquarters were 
situated, and he had even struck wp a gamin’s acquaint- 
anceship with some of the captain’s good-natured men, 
especially with the young man, Felix, who loved to chaff 
the quick-witted, crusty little misanthrope. 

During his turbulent little life, Tim’s one pleasure 
and relaxation, the only pleasure to be had by such as 
he, without money and without price, had been looking 
and listening. 

Other boys of his age followed the bands, the cir- 
cus parades, the march of societies, the fire-engines, and 
even began to take, in saloons and on street corners, 
their first lessons in ward politics. Tim, indeed, in a 
time of dearth, might indulge mildly in these delights, 
but they were not his chiefest. Better than all of these 
more or less cheerful spectacles, Tim loved to peer into 
ambulances and prison vans, to hang about police courts, 
to stand 'packed into the crowd that constitutes the 
“ragged edge,” let in or shut out as might be, at a cor- 
oner’s inquest. Better than all these he loved to follow 
a body to the morgue, and to watch and listen, as he 
hung about that awful place. 

As yet his political instincts lay dormant, but he could 
listen for hours to the lounging gossipers who talked 
chiefly of murders, suicides, assaults, and all manner of 
malodorous sensations. It was owing to information 

409 


410 


A SLENDER CLUE 


gleaned for the most part from his attendance at the 
morgue, and his attention at the street corners, that Tim 
was now scampering over the pavements, bent upon de- 
livering some of his "useful knowledge" into the hands 
of Captain B — . 

It happened that the chief of police was absent that 
morning, and Felix, acting as deputy, sat behind his 
desk. 

"There’s a kid out here that says he knows you," said 
a man coming into the office and addressing Felix. "He 
asked for the captain first— says he’s got something im- 
portant to tell." 

"Oh! bring in the young informer, Johnny; I dare say 
he’s one of my bosom friends." 

"Hello!” he ejaculated when Tim, still panting and 
red in the face, appeared before him. "It’s you is it, 
youngster? What’s on you?' mind? The last time I saw 
you, you were counting the carriages in a funeral pro- 
cession. Flow many were there, you festive youngster?” 

Tim scowled and dug his knuckles into his eyes. 

"That was day afore yisterday, ” he said surlily,, "an’ 
there was only sixty-five; I guess if you lived with Cir- 
cus Fan you’d be about as festive as I be.” 

"I shouldn’t wonder,” answered Felix, his eyes twink- 
ling; "I guess I won’t change places with you, Tim.” 
Then suddenly remembering his official dignity, "what’ s 
wanted, my boy?” 

Tim drew nearer and assumed a look of solemn mys- 
tery. 

"Ye know the woman that was murdered in the 
alley, much as four months ago, I guess?" 

"Do you mean the Warham murder, Tim?” 

"Yes, that’s it.” 

"Well that happened nearer five months ago, near the 
first of May — this is September.” 


^/V EMBYRO JUDAS 


411 


Wall, that’s the one. There was a ear-ring on the 
woman, an’ the perlice wanted to find the t’other one." 

"That we did, Tim. Well, goon." 

"What do I git if I tell ye where to find that other 
un?" 

Felix came down from his desk and seized the boy’s 
shoulder in no gentle grip. 

‘You’ll get something you won’t like if you come here 
with any cock-and-bull story about such a matter as 
that, youngster. If ^^ou really know anything, you had 
better out with it, short meter." 

"Lem me go,” whined Tim, writhing out of his hand, 
"confound ye, somebody’s alius yankin me around cos 
I’m little.” 

"That’s all right, boy. What about that ear-ring?" 

. "Wall, I’ve jist seen it." 

"Where? " 

"Down where I live. Circus Fan’s." 

"In her possession?" 

"No. I seen Charlie Jinkins’ show it to her; she 
sent me after chips, an’ I got tired and come back to 
see if there was any sliow for grub. They didn’t hear 
me come in, an I seen him show it to her, an they even 
planned to take it to an uncle. Fan said she knew a 
good one. I knowed it the minute I set eyes on it; I’ve 
heard it pictured out lots o’ times an’ I seen a fotygraff 
of it too." 

"Oh, you have! now then tell us about this Charlie 
Jinkins. What is he anyhow?" Whereupon Tim gave his 
version of the history of "Charlie Jinkins,” as far back 
as his knowledge extended. 

When his story was done, Felix was silent so long 
that the boy grew impatient. 

"Say, boss,” he said ruefully, "warn’t there a reward 
promised in this ere business?" 


413 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“Yes,” said Felix absently. 

“Wall I wisht I had some of it; I — Pm awful hun* 
gry,” and Tim began to cry for sheer self-pity. 

Felix went to the office door and called — 

“Johnny!" 

The man who had ushered Tim in appeared again in 
the doorway. 

“Johftny, take this kid out and fill him up — if you can; 
Don’t lei him out of your sight, and bring him back as 
soon as he’s had enough to eat,” 

His words acted like yeast upon the spirits of little 
Tim; he winked at Johnny, and favored Felix with a 
wily little grin. 

“I guess we shan’t be back in a good while,” he said, 
as they went out. “I’m holler all through.” 

When they were gone Felix took up his hat and 
muttered: 

“This may amount to something. I’m going to send 
for Rufe Carnes.” 

Rufus Carnes was in his room at his hotel, engaged 
upon a rather unsatisfactory letter to Stanhope, when 
the office boy tapped at his door. 

“They’re wantin’ you at the telephone,” said the boy. 

Carnes was prompt at the instrument. “Hello,” he 
said in answer to a second call. “Who’s there?” 

“Captain B — ’s office,” came the reply. “Felix. 
Come over right away, something’s up.” 

“All right,” called Carnes, and in another half-minute 
was on his way. 


CHAPTER XLIII 


A TIMELY MOVE 

When Rufus Carnes reached the headquarters of 
Captain B — and heard the story of little Tim, he was 
prompt in action. 

“We must go at once to that woman’s house,” he said, 
“and see what this amounts to. I think Pll take one of 
your men, Felix; I’ll statit)n him outside, in case of 
need. I’ll take the little boy along to point out the 
place, then I’ll send him back. You’d better find him 
a lodging and keep your eye on him, for a few days at 
least. We don’t want him to go back to this woman 
just yet.” 

Little Tim was only too willing to return to the guar- 
dianship of one who fed him so bountifully. 

When they were within sight of the house, he pointed 
it out and said: 

“That there’s where Circus Fan lives, mister — d’ye 
want me anymore?” 

“No, Tim.” 

The boy started to retrace his steps, then hesitated 
and came back. 

“I say, boss — ” 

Carnes turned quickly. 

“Ye — ye won’t tell Fan nothin’ about me bein’ in this 
business, will ye? I — I wish yer Vv^ouldn’t.” 

“All right, I won’t, Tim.” And he hastened on, 
smiling to himself at Tim’s caution, as he stood rapping 
at Circus Fan’s door. 


413 


414 


A SLENDER CLUE 


She had been at home some moments when Carnes 
arrived, and had already swallowed the severely simple 
luncheon with which she had provided herself out of 
the dollar she had obtained from the pawnbroker. 

There was an angry flush upon her cheek, when she 
opened the door, and a vindictive gleam brightened her 
eye. She had been gloating in imagination over the fate 
she had planned for Moss, and which would overtake 
him a week hence. 

She was quite prepared for an official visit, but the 
good-natured, careless looking individual who greeted her 
with a smile and hat uplifted, was not just the personage 
she liad in her mind, and while she scrutinized him with 
some surprise evident in her face, he coolly pushed her 
front door wide open — Fan’s figure, which was a slim 
one, had fillfed up the orifice she had thought it prudent 
to guard — and stepping nimbly past her turned to face 
her from the center of her own room. 

"Be so good as to close the door, madam.” On second 
scrutiny Fan did not find her visitor’s face so careless 
nor so good-natured as she had at first thought it. But 
she had nothing to fear, so she closed the door, and 
coolly awaited his first word. 

From his position in the center of the room he could 
see half of the rear room through the open door; and 
without a word he went toward it and took a survey of 
the other half. Then he turned again toward Fan. 

"Where is Mr. Charlie Jinkins?” he asked peremp- 
torily. 

The woman actually laughed. 

"You won’t find him here,” she said. "What do you 
want with Charlie Jinkins?" 

"He was with you a 'short time ago, nevertheless. I 
have business with him.” 

"Are you a policeman?” she asked. 


A TIMELY MOl^E 


415 


"No, I am not a policeman." 

"Well," she said slowly and with evident relish for 
his coming discomfiture, "I suppose it was something 
more important than a friendly call that brought you 
here to see Charlie. And I may as well tell you that 
you won’t be likely to see him by staying here." 

"Then I may as well tell you that you won’t find it to 
your interest to trifle with me, especially if you are this 
fellow’s friend. If you know where he is, you would 
better tell me." 

*Bhe sat down upon the nearest chair and looked up at 
him with a sneer. 

"I don’t think it will be kept a state secret,” she 
said, "so I may as well be the one to tell you. If you 
are anxious to see Charlie Jinkins you had better go to 
Sharp’s detective agency. I think you’ll find him there.” 

Carnes started and his eyes flashed angrily. 

"Do you mean to say," he demanded, "that he has been 
arrested — now within the past hour?” 

"That’s what I mean to say. He went away with two 
of Sharp’s men in a hack, and 1 have reason to think 
from his manner that he did not look upon it is a pleas- 
ure trip.” 

"Tell me what you know about this,” he demanded 
sternly. 

"With pleasure. Charlie and I were hungry, and he 
decided to deposit a small article. of more or less value, 
with a gentleman who lives near Black Alley. Moss, 
they call him.” 

Carnes nodded. 

"It was I, in fact, who recommended Moss — and donH, 
I wish I hadn’t — I went with Charlie and waited a long 
time, a very l^ong time for a hungry woman to wait, at 
the nearest corner. Well, it seems that the article he 
presented to Moss played the mischief. While I waited, 


416 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Moss sent for Sharp’s men and put poor Charlie into 
their clutches.” 

“Do you know what was the charge upon which they 
took him?” asked Carnes. 

"That I don’t. I wish I did!” 

"What was the article he undertook to pawn?” 

"A Cameo ear-ring.” 

Carnes made an impatient gesture, and turned toward 
the door, 

"Tell me one thing,” he said, "are 3^ou a friend to 
this fellow, this Jinkins? Are you disposed to help him 
if you can?” 

"Are you?” she retorted. 

"I am not his enemy — I wish him no harm. Answer 
me. ” '' 

"If lam a friend to anyone,” she said, her face cloud- 
ing, "Pm a friend to Charlie Jinkins. I don’t want to 
get into trouble on his account. I’ve had trouble 
enough in my time — but I’d help him if I could. Yes, 
indeed!” 

"I’ll see you again in the course of the day,” said 
Carnes abruptly. "I’m not in concert with Sharp, and 
you had better look upon me as a well-disposed person, 
and not try to avoid me. In case you should feel like chang- 
ing your quarters. I’ll just mention that my men are 
watching this house; if you happen to go abroad one of 
them will accompany you. Stpp — have you any reason 
to think that Sharp or his men may give you a call? 
will this Charlie be likel}^ to send for you?" 

"He may. Perhaps he will.” 

Without another word her visitor strode to the door, 
opened it and looked out upon the street where a blue- 
coated man stood idly gazing about him; he made a sign 
and the blue-coat promptly approached the door, 

"Get me a hack, Johnny.” 


A TIMELY MOVE 


417 


The blue-coat moved away briskly and Carnes turned 
to the woman. 

"Now, madam, to keep you out of the clutches of Sharp 
& Co, I am going to take you under my protection, as 
it were. Consider yourself my guest. You shall be well 
lodged and comfortable, but I shall require your parole. 
Until Sharp & Co. show their hand, I want you where I 
can find you." 

"In other words you put me under arrest. You said 
you were not an officer!” 

"You are not under arrest. I said I was not a police- 
man. Come, I fear your friend Jinkins has got himself 
into serious trouble, and you and I may turn out to be 
his only friends; I don’t want to put you under arrest 
but — ” 

"Oh, I’ll go,” the woman said resentfully. "Needs 
must, I suppose, but I should very much like to know 
who you a?‘e, and what this is all about!” 

"If things take the turn that I anticipate, we will 
probably understand each other in a day or two,” said 
her cool captor. 

With a muttered rejoinder not intended for his ears, 
Circus Fan turned away to make her scant preparations, 
and in a few moments she was driving away with Carnes, 
congratulating herself that at least he had promised her 
a comfortable lodging, and wondering what strange fate 
had overtaken Charlie Jinkins. 

Before they drove away, however, Carnes had leaned 
out of the carriage, and said in an undertone to the blue- 
coated man, who had returned upon the box with the 
driver, and who had descended to perform the office of 
footman for the two; 

"Stay here and watch this house until I send you a 
relief. If any of Sharp’s men come here I want to 
know it." 

28 


418 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Late that afternoon, just as the “relief,” was begin- 
nin to find his watch monotonous, two men approached 
the abode of Circus Fan and knocked vainly and long, 
for admittance. They walked around the house, examined 
the rear exit, and seemed unwilling to believe the evi- 
dence of their senses. 

While they stood before the door irresolute, a blue- 
coated policeman sauntered by, none other than our now 
very alert “relief. ’’ 

“I say, officer,” called one of the men. "Do you know 
who lives in this house?” 

The policeman approached them with cheerful alac- 
rity. 

“It’s a woman called Circus Fan,” he said. “I don’t 
know any other name for her.” 

“Do you know anything of her whereabouts? 

The blue-coat turned toward them a face of amiable 
candor. 

“I should say she may have left the city,” he said. 
“She went away about noon with a grip-sack and a 
bundle. ” 

“Alone?” asked one of the men. 

“Alone,” said the blue-coat, and walked away, a broad 
grin overspreading his face, when he saw them, over 
his shoulder, hastening in an opposite direction. 

And thus it was that Carnes began by prompt action, 
the duel of wits that v/as to wage between Sharp & Co., 
and himself for many a day. 


CHAPTER XLIV 


THE FLY AND THE WEB 

Sharp & Co were expeditious in preparing for the town 
a new and welcome sensation. 

The newspapers, and that large class of gentry who 
live by their wits upon other people’s earnings, and 
while so living find ample time to regulate the affairs 
of their neighbors, ahd the nation, rejoiced in it. 

The " Morning Owl" told the story with a flourish of trum- 
pets and these startling headlines: 

"MURDER WILL OUT!" 

"an assassin run to earth! " 

"the good work of SHARPES AGENCY!" 

"the murder of MRS. warham!" 

"a mysterious unknown!" 

"light at last on the warham mystery!" 

"More than four months ago our city was startled by a 
murder as strange and mysterious as any that has ever 
been recorded in our annals of crime — the murder of 
Mrs. Warham, the lady, who while visiting our city, and 
a guest of the Avenue House, met her death mysteriousl}' 
in the alley which separates the liquor house of Feist & 
Weld, from Ballard’s Block. Death had, too evidently, 
been caused by blows upon the head, dealt with some 
blunt instrument, and the body had been 

419 


420 


A SLENDER CLUE 


ROBBED. 

"It will probably be remembered by those who were in- 
terested in the case,, that the woman^s pocket was found 
turned inside out ; but that while one ear had lost its 
pendant jewel, the other, on the side on which the body 
lay when found, remained, and passed into the hands of 
the police — rather, into the hands of 

SHARP AND CO., 

who ever since have worked unceasingly to unravel this 
mystery which has been a shame to our city. 

"It was to this cameo ear-ring that the assassin finally 
owes his undoing; its fellow has been photographed and 
copies placed in the hands of pawnbrokers all over the 
city, and in many other cities as well. Yesterday 
morning the murderer presented himself to one Moss, 
who keeps a little pawn-shop near that none-too-reputa- 
ble place. Black Alley. The pawnbroker with commend- 
able sagacity contrived to detain the villain while he 
sent for Sharp’s men who took him at once into cus- 
tody. 

"the murderer 

— for there seems little doubt that he is the murderer 

— was more than half-intoxicated when taken; he showed 
great terror when arrested, resisted with drunken frenzy, 
and finally, when examined in Sharp’s private office, told 
a maudlin story in which he exhibits much tipsy inge- 
nuity. 

"When asked his name, he blurted out something which 
the officers could not understand except that it began 
with a syllable like Chari — or Carl; the surname was quite 
unintelligible, and when they asked him to repeat it, he 
stubbornly refused to do so and gave them instead the 
name Charlie Jinkins, which too evidently is a nom de 
plume. 


THE FLY AND THE IVEB 


421 


“In fact he does not attempt to deny this, but resolute- 
ly refuses to tell anything about himself, clinging, since 
he became sober, to his story of yesterday, which we give 
for what it is worth. 

“According to ‘Mr. Charlie Jenkins,’ he belongs to the 
numerous tramp family, and he tramped into Chicago 
some thing more than seven months ago, as nearly as he 
can remember, from parts unknown or unnamed; upon 
his manner and means of living since that time Mr. 
Jinkins is very reticent, but as we do not find his name 
upon the lists of the Palmer, the Grand Pacific, or in fact 
any of oiir great and much patronized hotels, we 
presume that he has lived in some more retired and 
modest manner. His story about the ear-ring is simply 
this: On Saturday he was drunk — drunk all day, and 
his very convenient memory refuses to serve him when he 
seems trying to recall the place which furnished him 
with a night’s lodging, except that it was somewhere 
near the place where the body was found. On Sunday 
morning, he was wandering down C — street not more 
than half-awake when his attention was attracted by 
something in the alley between Feist & Weld’s and 
Ballard's; this object proved to be the body of a woman 
with — strange oversight in someone — a watch and chain 
and other jewelry beside the fatal cameo ear-ring upon 
her person. He took this jewelry, he frankly admits, but 
he could not muster the courage to lift the head and se- 
cure the other ear-ring. This is 

CHARLIE JENKINS' STORY, 

but Sharp & Co. are busy making important additions 
to it, which will appear duly, and, no doubt, materially 
change the complexion of this vague and improbable 
version. 

This probable murderer is a man of twenty-four, or 


422 


A SLENDER CLUE 


thereabouts, who may at one time have been a fairly 
good-looking fellow of the thin blonde type. His face 
now is marked by dissipation, his eyes are dull, and his 
manner nervous and excitable. 

“He told this story yesterday with drunken volubility, 
but to-day is taciturn and silent; he professes to be 
hopeless; says that he is innocent, but is friendless and 
can make no defense. At times he gives way' to bursts 
of tearful despair, but no argument, threats nor persua- 
sion, will extract from him any information as to who 
he is, whence he came, or what was his motive for com- 
mitting the deed. 

“He admits having pawned the other articles taken from 
the murdered woman, and Sharp’s men will no doubt re- 
cover them. There is a theory that the stranger who is 
known to have visited Mrs. Warham at her hotel, may 
have been the instigator of the deed, and this man 
‘Jinkins’ his hired tool; Sharp & Co. are better than 
their name, and the result is in their hands. We await 
developments, and firmly believe they will find the key 
to the mystery surrounding this most shameful murder. ’ 

Following this was a reporter’s interview with Moss, the 
pawnbroker, in which it appeared that it was to this 
worthy that Sharp’s men owed their knowledge of Circus 
Fan, and following that, interviews with everyone who 
could or would say a word about the affair, all highly 
colored, sensational to the last degree, and carrying the 
reader away from the realm of fact, and far into that of 
conjecture and improbability. 

It was this version given by the “ Oza/," that Rufus 
Carnes first presented to the notice of Circus Fan, on 
the morning after he had installed her in a snug room, 
under the home-like roof, and the watchful eye of a 
woihan who, from long experience, knew how to look 


THE FLY AND THE IV EB 


423 


after her charge. Mrs. McCord for many years had won 
praise as a successful and humane prison matron, and she 
opened her doors to Circus Fan at Carnes’ request, with 
perfect readiness and, best of all, perfect intelligence. 

While Fan perused the columns of the " OwU" not stop- 
ping until she had mastered the very last interview, and 
accompanied the writer upon his last conjectural flight, 
Carnes sat opposite her, waiting in grave patience until 
she should finish. His manner was serious, alert and 
business-like, his face thoughtful. 

Already he had taken upon himself the championship 
of the poor v,^retch now writhing in the clutches of Sharp 
& Co., as if he were personally accountable for any 
wrong suffered at their hands, or at the hands of justice, 
then or in the future, by this unfortunate unknown. 

“Well! “ said Carnes, when Fan at last lowered the 
paper and looked across at him with anxious, astonished 
eyes. “This helps us toward an understanding, don’t 
it?” 

“Mercy 1” ejaculated the woman, “it’s horrible! Charlie 
never killed that woman; I’d swear to it.” 

“Could you swear to an alibif One that Sharp and all 
his agency could not break? That’s the only swearing that 
will be likely to help your Mr. Jinkins now.” 

Fan’looked serious and remained silent. 

“Now,” said the detective, rising and standing straight 
before her, ' you see the sort of trouble that is menacing 
your friend— tell me, are you disposed still to befriend 
this man, if you can do so with safety to yourself?” 

Her answer, in its readiness surprised him a little. 

“Now that I know what the trouble is, I have no fear 
for myself; I have no cause for fear. Drunken sot as 
that fellow is, do you notice that in telling his story he 
never speaks of me. He’s a gentleman at heart yet, 
and, even in his cups, he’s always treated me with more 


424 


A SLENDER CLUE 


respect than — than I ever meet with elsewhere. Ptv 
going to befriend Charlie Jinkins if I can find out 
how. And let me tell you that if you are trying to find 
out something, if you are playing a part, and are not a 
friend to Charlie, you won’t get any help from me. I’m 
not 2. fool, whatever you take me for!” 

"If I had taken you for a fool I would not be talking 
with you now, and, to prove that I have more confidence 
in your profession of friendship for this man than you 
have in mine, I will tell you my position in a nut- 
shell. " 

Carnes did not add that he had catechized little Tim 
narrowly, and taken other means to assure himself of her 
sincerity. Nor that under pretense of being an emissary 
of Sharp’s, and of making a search for Fan, he had vis- 
ited Moss in Black Alley, and from him heard of her 
wrathful descent upon the pawnshop. 

‘T have been interested in this murdered woman’s case 
from the first," resumed Carnes, "and had traced the mur- 
der home, or so I thought. Of course I do not attempt 
to conceal from you the fact that I am a detective." 

"I have heard more or less about the most prominent 
of the city detectives,” said Fan, in a tone that was 
skeptically suggestive. 

'T don’t count myself among the most prominent,” 
said Carnes, smiling at her cunning. "But you may 
possibly have heard of Rufus Carnes." 

"Are you Rufus Carnes?" She started forward and 
looked at him with renewed interest. 

"That is my name. Shall I ask Mrs. McCord in to 
vouch for me?” 

She shook her head, and her manner was quite sub- 
dued as she replied, "No, now that I look at you — and 
know, I do not doubt. If you are Carnes the detective, 
I am not afraid to promise you my aid, anything that I 


THE FLY AHD THE IVEB 


425 


can do; you were hurt last summer; I saw it in the 
newspapers. ” 

"Yes,” he said; "it was that that causes us this trouble 
now; but for that accident I might have caught the as- 
sassin in the very act; 1 had him under my eye. I don^t 
know this man - that you call Charlie Jinkins, but I 
believe him innocent of Mrs. Warham’s death, and it is 
my duty to save him if I can — there are reasons, as you 
must see, wh}^ I do not wish to appear openly in oppo- 
sition to Sharp & Co. I shall depend upon you to keep 
my secret and to act for me. If you will remain here 
with Mrs. McCord, she will make 3 ^ou comfortable, and 
for any trouble that I may give you, you shall be well 
repaid.” 

Poor Circus Fan! two tears stood in her eyes; and 
there was a little break in her voice when she said: 

"It was to get me food that poor Charlie ran him- 
self into that trap, Mr. Carnes. I — Pm too poor to 
refuse your help — but — I won’t be paid for trying to help 
Charlie.” 

She meant it honestly — and she worked with a will; 
nevertheless, long after, when the tangled skein was 
finally unraveled, Circus Fan received her reward. 


CHAPTER XLV 


RESIGNED TO HIS FATE 

While Sharp and his men were actively endeavoring^: 
to prove him guilty, and Carnes and Circus Fan were 
just as actively trying to convince themelves first, and 
afterward the world, of his innocence, “Charlie Jinkins, ” 
in his cell, was developing some traits hitherto unsus- 
pected in him — an obstinacy that was proof against 
reasoning, threats, entreaties, all the arguments that 
could be brought to bear, by Sharp and his allies on the 
one side, and b}^ Carnes, through the medium of Circus 
Fan, on the other. 

In short, after his first outbreaks of terror and anger, 
when he had become thoroughly sobered, knew the 
charge against him, and had found time to face the full 
horror and hopelessness of it, when he had again and 
again declared his innocence, and found his declarations 
of no avail, he relapsed into a hopeless, silent calm, the 
calm of the fatalist. In this mood he was exasperating 
to the men who had thought to wring from him, once 
they had him under their hands, a. ready confession of 
guilt. 

They had captured a maudlin drunken fellow, coward- 
1}% talkative, as weak as he was wicked, and they antic- 
ipated no difficulties. 

He had talked enough on the day of his capture; he 
had talked too much; that he was silent and sullen on 
the following day did not disturb them. 

420 


RESIGNED TO HIS FATE 


427 


"Let him alone," said the chief inquisitor. "Let him 
entirely alone for a few days. Don’t let him see anyone. 
Give him time to think it out in solitudL That will 
settle him.” 

It did. But not as they had anticipated. 

He had said his say. So he reasoned within himself, 
and they had not believed him — how should they? — he a 
poor, besotted, nameless, friendless waif. A woman had 
been murdered and robbed, her watch, her purse, her jew- 
els had found their way into his possession. He had ac- 
knowledged the theft, and they would not believe him. 
The}^ demanded his true name, his past history; what 
had these to do with this murder? They would like his 
story if he had a story, to exploit it in the newspaper; 
why should he tell it? Why should he declare anything? 
His word, unsupported, was less than nothing; and there 
was no one to support it, not one. Even Fan had aban- 
doned him. Could it be possible that she did not know 
what Irad befallen him? 

He did not know that the newspapers had already 
made him famous, the most recent wonder— for nine 
days. He did not know that Fan had twice applied for 
admission to him, and had been refused. He did not 
know that he was undergoing the test of solitary confine- 
ment. 

On the morning of the fourth day of his solitude, he 
awoke cold and shivering, weak too, with clammy hands, 
and cold sweat-drops standing out upon his forehead. 

It was in this condition that his inquisitors found 
him, but his weakness ‘did not make their task easier. 

He had not asked himself why they had staid away; 
he looked upon his fate as virtually settled. He was 
accused of murder; he had no defense; there was circum- 
stantial evidence enough to hang him, and neither money 
nor influence to overbalance the evidence. There would 


438 


A SLENDER CLUE 


be a trial, a pretense of one, and Sharp & Co. would 
have things all their own way. When it was over — well, 
he had heard of innocent men who were hanged, and it 
had happened that, after the deed was done, the truth 
came to light; the real murderer confessed upon his 
death-bed, or was found out — too late. 

If this should happen in his case, how useless it 
would be. He should leave behind him no friends to be 
glad that his name had been vindicated while they wept 
that his life had been sacrificed. He should die, when 
the time came, as for the past six months he had lived, 
“Charlie Jinkins,” a waif. 

Net that he wanted to die, oh no — he was not insane — 
but Fate had willed it. It was useless to quarrel with 
Fate. 

Far more difficult to manage than the man who will 
not give up, is the man who has given up. 

“Charlie Jinkins,” presented to his visitors, when at 
last they came, a sufficiently pitiable aspect; pallid, 
shivering, weak; his eyes hollow and heavy and down- 
cast. 

But he had no answers for their questions; he was 
indifferent to their threats, promises, protestations. 

“I have no more to say,” he said, and said no more, 
until they drew him a graphic picture of his probable 
fate. 

“Well,” he said then, with just a gleam of impatience 
in his tired eyes. “You can’t hang me today." 

When they went away baffled, he felt no sense of tri- 
umph, although had he been in a state of mind to ap- 
preciate the fact, he had thwarted two of Sharp & Co’s 
wiliest men. He had no thought of this. He had 
simply taken the easiest way, when effort seemed useless. 

When his 'visitors left him, one of them said to the 
warden: 


RESIGNED TO HIS FATE 


429 


"Let him see anyone that comes — but be sure to 
report all such to Sharp." And to majce assurance 
doubly sure, they set a man to dog the steps of any 
visitor who might take an interest in their prisoner. 

Circus Fan was the first to come, and she came armed 
at all points, assured by Carnes that her admittance 
was only a question of time; she was prepared to con- 
tinue her siege indefinitely, and she was prepared, too, 
for questions; for any emergency; thoroughly drilled by 
Carnes, she knew what to say and what to leave unsaid; 
what to know, and what not to know. 

Charlie Jinkins was glad to see her; the tears sprang 
to his eyes, whicH were beginning to brighten with 
fever. But he was not inclined to talk, and Fan had 
been instructed not to tell him that others were at work 
in his behalf. 

"I know all about it, Charlie, she said soothingly, 
"and iCs a shameful thing to accuse you of. Of 
course / know you didn’t do it.” 

"I didn’t. Fan.” 

"I wish you had told me about those things, Charlie — 
that purse and the rest. I might have helped you more. 
You’ve got to have help, boy, and poor old Fan after all 
don’t know how to begin. I’ve never asked you ques- 
tions, Charlie, not even asked your name. But now 
that you’re in trouble you must tell me about yourself. 
If you’ve got friends anywhere they must come out and 
help you.” 

"There’s nothing to tell. Fan, and I haven’t a friend 
in the world but you. If I had — or had a name — other 
than the one you gave me--do you think I would drag 
it before the world now—7x.nd. friends — do you think they 
would bless me for dragging them into disgrace along 
with myself? I’m nothing, I tell you, Fan! you’re my 
only friend; and you had better keep away from me, for 
your own sake. ” 


430 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Something, perhaps it was the danger of her protSg^, 
perhaps the effect of Carnes humane discourse, seemed 
to have softened a spot in Fan’s hardened heart, and 
made her for the moment conscientious of speech. 

“Pve got nothing to lose, Charlie — perhaps if I had 
I’d be only a fair-weather friend myself. But, boy, you 
must make a defense.” 

“rve told my story,” he said doggedly, “and they 
laughed at me. Don’t worry about me, old girl. It — 
it’s of no use.” 

When Circus Fan went out, after her fruitless effort 
to arouse him to action, she said to the warden: 

“That bo}^ is coming down with chills and fever, or 
something worse; he was half-starved when they brought 
him here, and I don’t spose you've fed him on the fat of 
the land. If he gets too sick I spose I can come here 
and see that he don’t suffer for anything, can’t I?” 

“We’ll see about that,” said the warden, who had gen- 
erally a smile, sometimes a soft word for a pretty face, 
but who did not waste either upon faded bohemians 
like Circus Fan. 

The next day the prisoner was not so well and he 
grew worse daily. His illness caused a stay of proceed- 
ings. Even if he were inclined, he was too ill to talk 
or to listen, when the time for his examination and his 
trial came. 

It was a long, low fever; “typhoid malarial” the 
prison doctor called it, and Fan was rather pleased 
than otherwise with the long-winded, meaningless name 
that gave dignity to his prostrate condition, and staved 
off, for the time, the “proceedings” of the courts. 

“It’s irregular meals, and none at all, exposure, anxie- 
ty, and the taking away of his whisky all at once that 
ails him,” Fan said confidentially to Carnes. “He’s 
got down mighty low, and he’s going to come up slowly, 


RESIGNED TO HIS F/fTE 


4B1 


but it^s all the better for us, and McCord won’t let him 
hurry himself more than is good for him, I guess.’’ 

For Mrs. McCord, Circus Fan’s hostess, being a 
woman of established reputation at the jail, had been 
installed as nurse.; which installation had been brought 
about in a modest and unobtrusive manner, by Carnes 
and his friends. 


CHAPTER XLVI 


ON THE TRAIL 

During the long weeks that Charlie Jinkins lay in 
prison, not sick enough to die, yet too sick to get up 
and be hanged, Carnes found his occupation tedious. 

Only once had he visited the prisoner, and that visit 
was merely one of observation. He made no attempt to 
converse with the sick man, but went, d^&guised of 
course, and in the character of a mild and curious phi- 
lanthropist, at the heels of Circus Fan, who kept him 
well in the background, while she drew the patient out, 
speaking of him as “a good gentleman who came in to 
see if he needed anything.” 

As often as once a week, Carnes paid a visit to Joseph 
Larsen; but his malady did not seem to abate, and so, 
with one eye upon the jail, and one upon the asylum, 
Carnes found the days dragging by on leaden feet, and 
began to take morbid views of life. 

Meantime, with Stanhope in New York, it was quite 
otherwise. 

Upon reaching that city. Stanhope had sought out his 
friend Jones, and was soon put in possession of the 
single fact which had seemed to the New York re- 
porter, a sufficient reason for summoning him thither. 
Jones was a man of brisk action, and few words, and he 
had known Stanhope from boyhood. 

“I knew you*d come as quick as steam could bring 
you, Dick,” he said, "unless you had hit on a hotter 
trail; it won’t take me long to tell what Pve got for 

432 


ON THE TRAIL 


433 


you — you see Pve been doing the theaters and at W— ’s I 
struck a trail. W — , you must know, is a clever soul, 
which don’t by any means unfit him for his business, and 
he usually sees any and all applicants, who are in the 
least promising in person. Well, sir, when I showed 
him that picture you sent me, he seemed to know it 
at once. He declared that the original had called upon 
him only the day before, asking for a trial engagement. 
He had told her that there would be no chance for her 
for a week or ten days, but when they put on the new 
extravaganza they would require a good many ladies, 
and, if she chose to try the ballet, she might find her 
chance then.” 

“And the week,” broke in Stanhope, "is the week up?” 

‘‘It is up to-morrow; I telegraphed you promptly — ” 

"And I did not receive it until it was twenty-four 
hours old.” 

. "Well,” said Jones, "you are here in time. You must 
see W — , eh?” 

"Yes, and the sooner the better. Did she leave no 
address?” • 

"Not she. They seldom do, W — says. Now, Dick, 
how much are you going to tell me about it?" 

"Everything,” answered Stanhope. "Everything — 

almost.” And so he did. 

On the evening of the same day they saw W — , the 
manager of one of the great popular theaters. He was a 
busy man, but he knew Jones for a busy man also, and 
Stanhope was not unknown to him by name. 

It was easy to put the case before such a man as 
manager W — ; and when he had heard it, he was ready 
to give his help. "I think we have the girl you are 
looking for,” he said with decision. "I will aid you if 
I can. Perhaps,” turning to Stanhope, ''you would like a 
place in the extravaganza.” 

^9 


434 


A SLENDER CLUB 


“I might,” declared the detective. "But first let us see 
if the lady comes; and if she joins your company.” 

It was arranged that Stanhope should loiter about the 
theater, when the new piece began its rehearsals. 

‘‘I don’t think you will have to wait long,” said Mana- 
gerW — . “I think the young lady meant business; she was 
as prompt-spoken as possible, and straight to the point. 
And she had a voice that struck me at once as full of 
possibilites, low and sweet but neither light nor weak, 
and a better soubrette stage presence one does not often 
meet with. The girl interested me.” 

"Well,” said Jones, turning toward the detective, 
"when W — says that oi anyone it means something.” 

Stanhope was thoughtful for a moment. Then — 

"I wish you could recall your conversation,” he said. 

"It was not long,” the manager said; "she did not try 
to make talk. She came straight to business. She 
wanted to try her fortune upon the stage, and she 
wanted practical advice about the best way of making 
a beginning. When I told her, what I tell all young 
aspirants, that experience was better for one than any 
amount of lessons in ‘elocution’ and close study, she 
looked as if she did not half like it.” 

The detective smiled. He was thinking of that letter 
to Rose Hildreth. 

"But she soon saw the reason in my argument, and 
asked me if I could give her a chance in the ballet, and 
would work her hard enough to find out if she had any 
talent. Tf I have ability,’ she said, ‘enough of it, that 
is, to take me out of the ranks of the underpaid and 
commonplace, I can work hard and I will. But I will 
stop the very day I am told, by a competent judge, that 
I am no better than five hundred others in the same 
role. She said it with a vim,” the manager added, and 
laughed at the remembrance. 


O/; THE TRAIL 


435 


"And was that the end?” asked Stanhope. 

"There was little more said. She wanted to begin at 
once, and I told her of the chance in the new play. She 
seemed so loath to wait even for a week that, although 
she was very well dressed, I wondered why she did not 
ask me what I would pay for her services. But when 
I mentioned the matter of weekly payment she waved 
it away with a fine gesture. TTn not anxious about money 
— at present,’ she said. ‘For the present I an> only 
anxious to find out if I really have any talent.’” 

Stanhope got upon his feet. 

"It sounds,” he said with a quick look toward Jones, 
"it sounds vastly like — like the girl I’m looking for — 
and you think then that she is likely to come soon?” 

"I believe that she will be here within two days. It 
will not surprise me to see her to-morrow. If you have 
observed the dramatic column of the papers, you will 
have seen that the great spectacle of ^ Juinivere^ begins 
its rehearsals to-morrow.” 

"Then,” said Stanhope, "7 must be here too;” and they 
quickly laid the plans for his appearance at the theater 
in the morning. 

Stanhope had made his journey to New York, upon 
receiving the telegram from his friend, without loss of 
time and with much loss of sleep; and that night, after 

parting with manager W , he went at once to the 

reporter’s quarters, and in accordance with his self-im- 
posed rule, to recover lost sleep when he could and 
where he could — he retired early and slept late; not 
too late, however, to have breakfasted and made sundry 
changes in his personal appearance, before applying at 
the stage-door for admittance, not ten minutes after it 
had opened for the first time fhat morning. 

It had been arranged that he should see the manager 


436 


A SLENDER CLUE 


at once upon his arrival, in order to be presented by 
him to certain other majestic personages in and about 
the place; and he asked of the boy who admitted him: 

“Is Mr. W in his office?” 

“Yes sir,” said the bo}^ and then to Stanhope’s sur- 
prise he added, “he says you are to come up as quick 
as possible.” 

“By Jove, sir!” began the manager the moment the 
detectike was shut in with him and the key had been 
turned in the lock, “I’m g/ad 3-ou’vecome! good morning. 
Good morning! I hope you slept well. I hope you feel 
refreshed, for, ’pon my honor, I believe you’ve got 
pretty nearly your match; what would you give for news 
from your missing one this morning?” Here the mana- 
ger was obliged to draw a breath, and his visitor found 
time to exclaim: 

“What! Have you heard from her?” 

"Heard! I have seen her, man!” 

"Seen her! what! this morning!" 

"No, sir! Last night, not ten minutes after you left. 
There! ” throwing himself into his easy-chair and 
taking a longer breath. “What do you think of that 
for enterprise?” 

“I shall know better what to think," retorted Stanhope, 
“when you explain. I begin to fear that this interesting 
young person has bought out my interest, and that you 
are gone over to the enemy.” 

“I tell you, sir,” said the other with more sobriety, 
“I was sorely tempted. But no, I’m a scarred veteran, 
and I didn’t quite lose my head. Well, I’ll tell you how 
it was.” 

Stanhope leaned toward him across the table; his 
interest was manifest in his face. 

Rufus Carnes would have listened with a look of in- 
difference, but Stanhope was an enthusiast, although he 
could be cool enough at will. 


Oh! THE TRAIL 


43 ' 


"You had not been gone ten minutes, " began the man- 
ager, "when the lady appeared in my office, just as I 
was about to leave it; she began as promptly as before: 
‘I saw by the papers that your new play begins its 
rehearsal to-morrow;’ she began, 'and I thought it might 
be best to come this evening. • Have you kept a place 
for me?’ I told her that I had, and she seemed well 
pleased, and after asking particularly about the she 
seemed in a hurry to go. I stopped her and said, ‘You 
have not given me your address. Miss’ — I hesitated for 
she had not given me her name. ‘My name is Miss 
Burton,’ she said, ‘and my address — pardon me, but I 
would rather not give it.’” 

"By Jove! ” ejaculated Stanhope. 

"You may say so. Well sir, I told her that it was our 
rule to keep upon our books the place of residence of 
every member of the ballet— that it was just a matter of 
business; but she suddenly turned upon me such a bat- 
tery of pretty looks and artful coaxing, that she gained 
her point, and in fact I could not help myself, for she 
declared that if I refused to let her come and go with- 
out questions she must stay away altogether, much as 
she wanted to come. Of course I gave in them and so 
she went, promising to be here this afternoon promptly 
at two o’clock.” 

"And of course you sent . some one to follow her 
home?” cried Stanhope, half-rising. 

"My dear sir! Did not I tell you that the girl was 
clever? She made me promise that I would never at any 
time send anyone to follow her or to spy upon her in 
any way. She made no excuses, no explanations; but — 
she got my promise.” 

Stanhope sank back in his chair. "And you let her go 
like that, then?” 

"Not I. 1 had promised not to serid anyone, and so I 


438 


A SLENDER CLUE 


did not. I clapped on my hat and followed her — '* 

“Ah!” 

“She went out swiftly, walked to the cab-stand over 
there and took a carriage.” 

“And you?" 

“I — J took a cab.” 

“Go on. ” 

“There’s not much more. She drove a dozen blocks 
and then the carriage stopped on Fifth Ave., she got 
out, and so did I. She crossed the street, walked a 
block, and hailed ihe very cab I had gotten out of.” 

“Good! and then?” 

Manager W — got up and walked across the small 
office and back again, until he faced the detective, still 
standing. “Through all this 1 had been thinking of you 
and your interests,” he said. “Now I suddenly thought 
of myself and of her. I had promised to aid you, but 
J was not a detective. A detective, engaged in his 
work, with the honest motive of righting wrongs, and 
capturing criminals, is honorably employed, but I was 
not a detective, consequently I was a spy\ nothing bet- 
ter. I did not know what that little girl had done, but 
whatever it was, she was safe from further spying at my 
hands; I turned about and came back to my business.” 

“Well!” said the detective with a half-sigh; “I can’t 
blame you — what you did was right — for you — ” 

“What I did last — or first?” 

“What you did last, of course,” and the two men 
laughed. “But there’s hope for us yet; she will come 
to-day; you are sure of that?” 

“I have her word.” 

“Well you have made me a promise also.” 

“Not to interfere — and to give you the run of the 
place? That I’ll stick to; but I’m out of it after that, 
mind. ” 


ON THE TRAIL 


439 


"With all my heart,” said Stanhope. 

Two o’clock came and passed, the first rehearsal of 
the most picturesque of spectacles began and ended, but 
the young woman who had joined the ballet without 
leaving either name or address did not appear. 

When this was ascertained beyond a doubt, Stanhope 
betook himself to the office of the manager and there 
awaited the closing of the rehearsal. “Look here, ” he said 
when Mr. W — appeared, full of wonder and somewhat 
chagrined, "you must help me this much: tell me the 
number of the cab you took last night.” 

The manager stared at him and then uttered a “gen- 
tlemanly” oath. “Upon my soul, I never thought of that. 
I could not tell the fellow’s number, nor even his face if 
I met it to-morrow. I didn’t think of him, and I don’t 
much think he belongs to this stand,” pointing down the 
street; “for these fellows all know me, and he didn’t 
appear to know me from the coal man. No, sir, I can’t 
help you even there.” 

“I’ll find him!” cried the detective; “I’ll find him if 
he’s still in this city!” and he did. 

Two days later he wrote a long letter to Carnes, and 
the mail-bag which contained it carried also, to the same 
city, and beyond it, two other letters, longer than 
Stanhope’s own, faintly perfumed, and daintily written; 
and these dainty missives, could Stanhope have se- 
cured them, and perused them, with the understanding, 
would have speedily caused him to forget his search for 
the unknown cab-driver. 


CHAPTER XLVIl 


THE LETTERS 

Stanhope^s letter began with a terse account of his 
meeting with manager W — ; and the way in which the 
girl, believed by both to be Bertha Warham, had eluded 
him. 

“The manager,” wrote Stanhope, “seemed half-inclined 
to think that she had discovered my presence at the 
theater, but, after reflection, that looks to me improb- 
able; I am now inclined to think that there is some 
other person, a man of course, at the bottom of the 
mischief; that she is either trying to avoid or evade 
some one, or else that the theater was only a project — 
something to be taken up in case something else of more 
importance, or greater interest to the lady, failed her. 
I believe Miss B. W. would be quite equal to ‘throwing 
an anchor to windward’ in that way. 

“Well, it is not easy work to find a numberless cabman, 
but I found the man who carried the young lady home 
after dropping Manager W — , and he took me to the 
place where he had left her; it was a genteel boarding 
house. I won’t bother you with details, old man ; you 
know how we go about these things. I lost no time and 
got my reward, 

“By Jove, Carnes, that girl is a witch. Here are the 
minutes;. The young lady was deposited at the door 
by cabby at, or very near, eight o’clock, and just ten 
minutes later a man rang the bell, and asked to see Miss 
Burton, that is the name our young lady — if she is ours! 

440 


THE LETTERS 


441 


— gave the landlady; she came down and received a 
letter from the stranger, who at once departed. In ten 
minutes more one of the boarders met ‘Miss Burton/ 
bonneted for the street again and going down the stairs. 
Another boarder — a woman of course— -saw through her 
window that a carriage was drawn up just midway 
between that house and the next, saw Miss B — enter it, 
and — that’s all. Once more she has vanished 

"Now, old man, I am getting aroused — and inter- 
ested. I won’t say that I’ll bring the girl home; 
but I’m going to know the secret of her flitting and 
see her face to face, if we both remain upon this planet 
a little longer. I am g-etting some odd notions about 
this missing Bertha Warham, and — I mean to find her^ 
and never to touch another case until I do.” 

"Poor Dick!" said Carnes, when he had finished read- 
ing this letter; "I'm afraid he’s caught a tartar.” 

"I shall stay here some days longer,” finished Stan- 
hope. "I mean to search this big city thoroughly and 
Jones will be my aid. 

"I have little faith in finding the lady here; I have a 
fancy that she’s flitting from point to point, and if this 
is so, with that face of hers, I shall yet catch up with 
her: keep me well-informed, Rufus. If you don’t recall 
me to Chicago I shall be likely to go from this j^lace 
to Boston. Yours, off the scent. Stanhope.” 

The next letter bearing the New York postmark is 
from Miss Adeline Rooseveldt to Mrs. Jacob Baring, and 
runs as follows : 

"My Dear Aunt: — According to my promise, I will 
try to give you the benefit of my impressions as regards 
Ellen Jermyn’s new home and married life. First then, 
if one can only get over wondering how any one can pre- 


443 


A SLENDER CLUE 


fer to live in New York rather than Boston or Philadel- 
phia, there is little fault to find, with Ellen’s home. 
Her house is perfect of its kind, and the location irre- 
proachable. Ellen too seems very well content, although 
it is plain to me that her health is failing. Mr. Jermyn 
is his usual self — always the same grave, courteous gen- 
tleman, that we first knew in Roseville. He is very stu- 
dious and fond of making chemical experiments. He 
seems to care very little for society, yet is a delightful 
host. Sometimes I fancy that Ellen is not quite happy 
as she should be with such a husband, and such a home. 
I think that they are not always in perfect harmon}^ and 
she feels at times a little isolated. He is so studious, 
so full of lofty thoughts, so engrossed with his experi- 
ments and his scientific essays; he writes much and con- 
tributes, under a nom de plufne oi course, to several maga- 
•^ines. I think that even Ellen, who is really so intelli- 
gent, finds herself lagging behind a little — and that she 
feels it. 

“Her failing health too makes her somewhat moody and 
fanciful at times, but Mr. Jermyn is all patience and de- 
votion. Of late Ellen has talked sometimes about her half- 
brother Carl Jernyngham, how she has dreams about him, 
and really wants to find him and assist him if he is in needj 
She told me one day that she had talked the matter over 
with Mr. Jermyn, and that he quite approved of her idea; 
she had proposed that they take measures to find him, and 
wants to make her will and bequeath him a share of her 
property. I don’t quite understand why Ellen has taken 
up this new idea, but you know she is very conscientious, 
and thinks that she has been neglectful; she says that 
she wants to befriend Carl for the sake of the family 
name. It’s charming to see how Mr. Jermyn approves 
and enters into all the plans. He has promised her that 
he would consult lawyers and take steps toward finding 
Carl at once. 


THE LETTERS 


443 


"They talk of making a journey soon, of traveling west, 
and south, for some months. Mr. Jermyn is sure it will 
benefit her health. Ellen didn’t seem to care much 
about the proposed trip at first, but the doctor assured 
her that she will come back strong and well, and she 
has decided to go. 

"There is nothing new at this time of year in literature, 
art, or fashion. Grace and 1 will remain a week longer 
with Ellen; we have still some shopping to do, and 
there’s no better place than New York for shopping, after 
all — then we shall go back to Philadelphia, and in a 
few weeks come to you for a little visit. 

"Yours with affection, Adeline Rooseveldt. " 

"P. S. I am surprised to hear that Kenneth Baring still 
clings to his attachment for that girl Rene Brian. How 
it must try you. A. R." 

The last letter, from Grace Rooseveldt in New York to 
Lotta Baring in Roseville, is pitched in .a different key. 

"My Dearest Lotta; —How I wish you were right 
here to have a nice dish of gossip with me! I could 
furnish the subject — you would have nothing to do but 
talk. I am full of things to say, and talking on paper 
is so unsatisfactory. I am sitting here all alone in our 
room. Ad. ’s and mine, in Ellen Jermyn’ s fine new house. 
It is really fine, and splendidly surrounded;, it’s ever so 
much nicer and jollier than her old Philadelphia wig- 
wam, and New York is the city of cities. Oh how I 
wish we lived here! But in spite of appearance, and of 
Ad.’s declarations to the contrary, I don’t befieve that 
Ellen likes it. I don’t believe she ever wanted to come 
to New York at all; it’s all that man. In spite of his 
soft slow voice and quiet sedate ways he rules Ellen with 
a rod of iron; I just know it. Ad. is as blind as a mole 


444 


A SLENDER CLUE 


to all this; she is that wrapped up in Mr. E. P. Jermyn 
that she can’t see a fault in him. 

“If Ad. were prettier and not such an owl, I believe it 
would make Ellen jealous. It don’t take much to make 
her jealous, let me tell you; I’ve seen it tried, and as 
this was on my mind when I began this letter. I’ll just 
tell you all about it here and now, before I wander from 
the subject again. 

“Ad. and I, as you know, have been here now nearly 
four weeks, and we began at once to quarrel about our 
host and hostess; Ad. declares and believes -that Mr. J — 
is a model of manly perfection, and that if Ellen is not 
perfectly happy it is because she is unable to appreciate 
such a paragon, while I declare and know that Ellen 
Jernyngham is a disappointed woman, and that her spouse 
carries an iron hand under his fur mittens. 

“He’s too calm and serene and suave to believe in. It 
isn’t in nature — nor in grace either — for a man to be so 
angelic dLXid mean it. He’s/^7^/>/^; I said it from the first — 
he’s merely posing, and for whose benefit? or for whose 
undoing, only time can tell. 

“Well, as I said before, or was about to say, nearly two 
weeks ago Mr. J — mentioned at the breakfast table that 
he had half-decided to employ an amanuensis. He said 
that he had been laz}^ and some writing which he had 
promised his publishers lay in a state of chaos upon his 
desk. He thought he would look for some quiet, unob- 
trusive person, girl or woman, to do the work; he did 
not like a man for such business; besides, he believed in 
woman’s right to earn her living, and if he were an em- 
ployer he^would never give a man the work that women 
could do, etc. You can’t think how this charmed old 
Adeline. I thought she would devour him with her eyes, 
and half-expected to hear her offer her services. Ellen 
said little on the subject, but I was sure that it dis- 


THE LETTERS 


445 


pleased her. Once or twice after that he spoke of it, and 
yesterday morning he told Ellen that he had found a 
scribe — a young woman had applied to him who seemed 
very suitable; she was quiet and had good manners. She 
seemed quite friendless and a stranger to the city; he had 
not inquired into her private history; she wrote a good 
hand, and seemed intelligent; that was enough for him; 
she was a rather dowdy little person, he added, and wore 
blue glasses, to protect her eyes, which looked some- 
what red and weak. 

Ellen said she was glad that he had found an assistant 
that suited him, but she was not very enthusiastic, and 
then lie ‘capped the climax\ ‘If it would not be posi- 
tively disagreeable to her, would she have a room pre- 
pared for this young woman; while she was employed 
by him he would like to have her under his roof; he 
should wish sometimes to work evenings and could not 
send a woman upon the street alone after an evening’s 
work; besides, the girl seemed quite friendless and for- 
lorn, and he wanted to be sure, that, while she was em- 
ployed by him at least, she had a safe home.’ 

“Ellen demurred to this a bit, but he took high rnorai 
ground and appealed to Ad., who seconded him of course, 
and he carried the day. And now at last I come to th^ 
point of my story: 

“To-day, just after luncheon, we were going out for a 
drive; Ellen, Ad. and I. His eminence did not join us 
at luncheon. We had not seen him since breakfast ; as 
a matter of course, I was the first one ready, and ran 
downstairs to the little reception-room that opens upon 
the vestibule, and commands a view of the street-door. 
I had been there about a minute when I heard wheels, 
and looking out I saw Mr. Jermyn helping a young 
woman out of a hack; she was dressed all in black, and 
all tied up in an ugly veil; but she moved with perfect 


446 


A SLENDER CLUE 


self-assurance, and with a springy, graceful step. They 
came up to the door together, and I stepped back from 
the window, to see them again as they entered. He 
opened the door with his latch-key, and I heard him say 
in a tone that was positively caressing and yet perfectl}^ 
respectful, 'If you will wait a moment in the recep- 
tion-room, I will call my wife;’ and he just touched her 
lightly on the shoulder and indicated the direction of 
the reception-room. My! oh my! it was as good as a 
play. I saw the girl look toward the stairway, and 
there was Ellen and Adeline; they had heard the latch- 
key and waited on the lower landing, just out of sight, 
to see who it might be. Ellen came sailing down the 
stairs with Ad. in her wake; at the foot she paused a 
moment and looked straight at him, as white as a 
shroud. 'Ellen,’ he says, ever so softly, ‘this is the 
young woman I told you of — my new amanuensis.’ 

"Whew! I didn’t think Ellen Jernyngham could ho. so 
rude. She just let the tail of her carriage gown drop 
from her fingers, and turning her shoulder squarely 
upon the girl, swept past her, with the haughtiest face — 
and of course Ad. followed her beastly example. Little 
idiot! The carriage was at the door and they were in it 
in a moment and looking around for me. I was behind 
the portiere in the reception-room; I wish you could 
have seen his face; it was livid, and his eyes shot blue 
lightning. But his voice was serene as usual when he 
said, ‘My dear young lady, pray pardon my wife; she is 
an invalid with excitable nerves, and is not herself to- 
day. This is all a mistake. I did not give her suffi- 
cient warning. It is my fault.’ 

“The girl threw up her veil and gave her head a toss, 
and her voice was as clear and cold, yes, and as sweet 
as iced champagne. 

“Tt was not your fault, Mr. Jermyn,^ she said. Tt is 


THE LETTERS 


447 


your misfortune, that your wife is not a lady/' Think of 
that, Lot. Oh! if Ellen could have heard. T did not 
expect to receive my first insult at the hands of a 
woman, and such a woman. If you will be so good as 
to call another carriage, I will leave your house at 
once.^ ‘You shall not leave my house, ^ he said, ‘until 
my wife has apologized for her rudeness, and she will 
readily do it when she understands.’ His voice had a 
strong command in it. ‘I insist upon your remaining,’ 
he said. T will not remain here alone,’ the girl said, 
‘and I must beg you to consider our arrangement at an 
end. I cannot assist you.’ • 

“‘You shall please yourself about that,’ he said, ‘but 
if you choose to stay, I promise you, hereafter, civil, yes, 
cordial treatment. There is someone in the house. 
Miss Burton. I will ask one of my wife’s friends to 
come down to you. She did not go out with the others.’ 

“Lot, I liked that girl. I looked out and saw Ellen and 
Ad. in the carriage waiting for me and trying to look 
dignified and unconcerned. I stepped out from the re- 
ception-room and said: 

“‘Mr. Jermyn, if you will say to the ladies that I have 
decided not to go, I will take this young lady to my 
room, if she will come, and entertain her until Mrs. 
Jermyn returns.’ Well, so it was, and when Ellen came 
back her lord and master asked her to speak with him 
in the library. There were no curses, no tears, no 
blows, no shrieks; but when Ellen came out she came 
straight up here, asked the girl to pardon her rudeness, 
said it was all a mistake, and offered to show her to 
a room. Then the girl got up and made her a very 
haughty little bow. 

“‘Madam,’ she said, and her voice was as sweet and 
clear and correct as Ellen’s own, which by the by was 
a little husky on this occasion. ‘Madam, T can do no 


448 


A SLENDER CLUE 


less than pardon your misiake.* (A little sarcasm goes 
with that emphasis.) ‘I am an orphan and utterly 
friendless, with just enough money in my purse to keep 
me from starving, perhaps, while I look for other work, 
that I am fit for and that is fit for me to do. I hoped 
to find employment and protection in your house, and 
I sadly need both. But I will starve in the street 
rather than be subjected to another insulr such as I re* 
ceived to-night. I can accept neither your patronage 
nor your hospitality and I will leave your house nowP 
She gave me a little nod, and a half-smile, and marched 
past Ellen and straight ^downstairs ;* when she passed 
the library door Mr Jermyn came out, hat in hand, and 
they went away in Elkfi^ s own barouche. 

’’You may guess that Miss Ad. came down upon me 
severely; but Ellen told her to let me alone, and said 
she was glad I was so considerate — I know she fibbed, 
— and Mr. Jermyn looked upon me with a positive smile 
as if to say, ‘brave female let there be peace between 
us.' 

“Dear me, what an endless letter! and I wanted to tell 
you how Ellen is beginning to be anxious about her 
half-brother, Carl — and it’s high time too, I should think, 
— he must have been gone now twelve years or more. 
You know he was older than Ellen. Well, I can’t ac- 
count for the Ethiopian in the fence, but he's there. 
Ellen Jernyngham never would have turned her atten- 
tion to this long absent brother, so suddenly, if she 
were not dissatisfied with her husband. And he need not 
pretend to be so anxious to find him as she is — not for 
my benefit — for I know it’s shamming. It’s likely that he 
wants Carl Jernyingham hunted up to take a big slice 
of Ellen’s fortune away, from him if she should happen 
to die!’’ 

“And so Ken Baring is almost a doctor? — worked his 


THE LETTERS 


449 


way alone too! Well / think he^s a plucky fellow. How 
surprised you must all have been to see him! And how 
it must have plagued Mrs. Jake. So he’s going to marry 
Rene after all, when his studies are over, and with his 
father’s. consent, too! Well, well! Foor Mrs. Jake! How 
are the mighty fallen! 

“Do you believe there’s an end to everything? I can’t 
make an end of this letter, but I’m going to stop it. 

“When did you hear from the Sunderlands? How is 
Linnett? And how is Charlie Brian? You never mention 
him, and that looks suspicious. 

Oh dear, here’s Ad.; it’s time to dress for dinner; amen 
and amen. Write soon. 

“Yours for life. 


Grace Rooseveldt. “ 


CHAPTER XLVIII 


DEATH AND KiNG CARNIVAL 

At the Mardi-gras season all leisurely New Orleans, 
and indeed all laboring New Orleans that is free, happy, 
and has a dime to spare or spend is given over to Festi- 
val and Folly. 

King Carnival sways the city. Momus laughs and re- 
fuses to distinguish between the fool and the philoso- 
pher. How should he, indeed, when the philosopher 
has donned the cap, and bell, and the fool, for the 
diversion of himself and his fellows, is testing the com- 
fort of philosophy’s gown. 

Music and laughter and riot reign. People are crowd- 
ed in the streets; are jeered at, jostled, dragged hither 
and thither; what matter, it is carnival time. It is for 
this they come out, if they are of the city, for this they 
come down, or up, or over, if they are the city’s guests. 
King Rex is within the gates; everybody is careless; 
faces must be masked or mirthful. Preservers of the 
peace smile, wear a flower in the button-hole, .try to 
look unprofessional. Justice and Law and Order fold 
their garments about them and wearing their wigs awry 
turn their backs to the noisy street, put their fingers 
to their ears, close their eyes, and try to persuade them- 
selves and each other that carnival time is a blessed 
relaxation, that Rex is wiser than he seems, that peo- 
ple in New Orleans should “do as the Romans do.” 

But sometimes the guardians of the peace are forced 
to drop their rosebuds, and assume professional airs, 

450 


DEATH AND KING CARNIKAL 


451 


and sometimes Justice and her servitors are forced to 
open their ears, pull their wigs into place, and sally 
forth — and thus in the motley, tumultuous, brilliant 
throngs, surging up and down Canal and Common 
Streets, to meet and salute each other with the meeting 
of the streets, on the broad Levee, or scattering in gay 
companies, and hilarious groups, down beautiful Ram- 
part Street — they become grotesque, even ghostly. 

On the morning of the great day which followed the 
triumphal entry of King Rex, Dame Justice was awak- 
ened with a shock which thrilled, for a moment, the very 
heart of Giddy Mardi-gras. 

On this morning all was life and bustle in and about 
a certain great hotel, which, with its exact location, it 
will be wise not to name, but which for convenience we 
may call the “Hotel Victor.” 

The Victor was thronged with guests; rooms had been 
taken weeks ahead, secured by letter, by telegraph, 
through agents, through friends; but now the guests had 
all arrived — so the splendid day-clerk was telling a young 
man who had just dropped in and was making application 
for a room. 

Just here an assistant spoke over the applicant’s 
shoulder. 

“Number 99 was vacant last night,” he said. 

“99! ” the day-clerk frowned, but nevertheless turned 
to the leaves of his register. “Time of reserve expired 
yesterday,” he said. “99! Wrong Akerts, 99. W. R. 
Jones and wife, arrived last night, after we went off, I 
suppose. Have they been to breakfast?” 

Upon inquiry it was found that the occupants of 99 
had not breakfasted. 

The splendid day-clerk knew his business. It was all 
too common for newly-arrived guests to sleep late or to 
oversleep; but carnival guests, at the height of the car- 


452 


A SLENDER CLUE 


nival season! that was not so common. It was quite 
usual for them not to go to bed; but not to get up, on a 
Mardi-gras morning, to slumber on long after nine 
o’clock — upon reflection the day-clerk ordered a knock 
at the door of gg. 

That was the beginning; and, having fixed his atten- 
tion upon the room, secured long weeks before for “W. 
R. Jones and wife of New York,” the clerk did not relax 
his vigilance; and when late in the morning "Room gg” 
remained still closed and silent, he took counsel with 
the “gentlemanly lessee and manager; ” and then calling 
an assistant, and armed with a bunch of duplicate keys, 
he went quietly up to room gg and made, with his 
knuckles, a personal application for admittance. Receiv- 
ing no answer to this, he bent and put his eye to the 
key-hole — the key was not in the lock. Next he turned 
the door handle, and gave it a vigorous shake, and then 
with a muttered exclamation of impatience, he fitted the 
key to the lock, turned it and opened the door. 

The room was large, one of the best in the house; well 
aired and lighted, and sumptuously furnished. In an 
alcove, at one side, arched and lace draped, stood a 
brass bedstead, and upon this, only half-concealed by 
the lace drapery, a woman was lying. One hand hung 
loosely over the bedside, the face was turned away. 

Thjs much the clerk saw as he stood in the doorway, 
then he softly stepped outside, drew the door shut 
behind him, and stood with his hand-upon the knob. 

“Go bring the housekeeper or one of the women, and 
be quick,” he said. “Pm afaid there’s something 
wrong." 

Down the long hall a troop of sight-seers came, laugh- 
ing and chattering gayly. They were sophisticated 
sight-seers, and when they saw the clerk at his post and 
wearing a look of anxiety which he had not the time to 






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V 



DE^TH /IND KING C/IRNIKAL 


453 


conceal, they knew that it meant something unusual, and 
they nodded and whispered, and one of them predicted 
a fresh sensation for the dinner table. 

When the housekeeper came, the clerk pushed open 
the door and said again in a low tone and with a gesture 
toward the alcove, "Go in. I’m afraid there’s some- 
thing wrong." 

He heard her firm step marching straight across the 
room toward the alcove; in imagination he saw her touch- 
ing the white jeweled hand, and bending over to look 
into the averted face. The housekeeper of the "Victor” 
was a capable woman with plenty of nerve. Just the 
woman for the place. Then in a moment he heard a 
stifled ejaculation, and the footsteps coming back. 

He stepped quickly across the threshold and met her 
horrified gaze. 

"She’s dead,” said the housekeeper. 

"Dead!" 

He beckoned to the assistant who still waited, then 
they went in and shut the door. 

She lay upon the outside of the luxurious lace-draped 
bed, herself luxurious in her carnival dress, the glowing 
elaborate court-gown of the eighteenth century. Her 
features were regular and fine, though emaciated, as if 
by illness. In life she must have been very pale, she was 
so frightfully pallid now. The eyes that looked out in 
that horrible way in which dead eyes peer at us, through 
half-closed lids, were black, or of the color that passes 
for black, and must have been beautiful. The dark 
brows were arched and regular; the lashes long, black and 
thick; while the abundant hair, elaborately arranged at 
the top. of the head, was of a genuine golden blonde. 

The hands were long, slender, white and jewel- 
l)edecked. There were bracelets upon the slim wrists, 
and a heavy collar of incrusted gold about her neck* 
The feet were smalb arched and daintily shod. 


454 


A SLENDER CLUE 


She lay upon her side; the long gleaming robe which 
on the evening before must have drawn many eyes to her 
carriage, hung trailing upon the carpet; except for the 
impressions made' by her slender form, the bed was quite 
undisturbed. The room too was in -perfect order. A large 
trunk stood at the foot of the bed, within the alcove, and 
a voluminous fur-trimmed cloak was flung across it, as if 
thrown carelessly there by the wearer. 

There was no sign nor hint of a violent death; the feat- 
ures were composed, the hands lay naturally, and lightly 
open. Calm she lay in the habiliments of King Carnival, 
and what ghastly trick had he played her, that, with all 
that glowing brilliant life around her she should lie there 
so still, so cold, so breathless? Whatever it was, King 
Carnival had done his work well; and when the three 
who gazed had assured themselves that nothing could 
be learned in that silent place, they went out softly, re-- 
locked room 99, and made their appeal from King Carni- 
val to the officers of justice. 


CHAPTER XLIX 


DOCTOR AND DETECTIVE 

Richard Stanhope had been in New Orleans four days 
when the carnival began. Since his letter to Carnes, 
and his departure from New York, he had visited various 
cities, with almost unvarying fortune, and many weeks 
had passed. 

Once or twice he had stumbled upon what seemed a 
clue to the girl he supposed to be Bertha Warham, but 
these clues had ended in vagueness. 

In Philadelphia a second time an officer who was com- 
paratively new to the city, and had not quite clothed 
himself, as yet, with the dignity of his stately habita- 
tion, assured him that he had seen a face surprisingly 
like that pictured face of Bertha Warham’s, once, twice, 
even oftener, since he came to the city. He had not seen 
it of late, and was not ' certain just when or where he 
had seen it. But it was the same face \ of this he was very 
sure. 

Again, in St. Louis, he came upon a similar clue; 
but it led to nothing, and when Lew Jones, the New 
York reporter, set out for the South to be present in his 
reportorial capacity, at the Mardi-gras festivites. Stan- 
hope, with whom he kept up an exchange of letters, more 
frequent than lengthy, was in Denver, having taken a 
sudden fancy to extend his chase westward. 

Jones, intent upon some personal matters not strictly 
dependent upon the carnival season, left New York 
more than two weeks in advance of it, and at the last 

4.55 


456 


A SLENDER CLUE 


moment almost, he had received a line from Stanhope. 

It was written from Denver, to inform his friend that 
he was about to set out for Omaha, and from that West- 
ern metropolis he would journey direct to New Orleans. 

When Stanhope had been seven days in Omaha, and 
Jones two days in New Orleans, the latter penned a let- 
ter to the former, brief but interesting. 

“Come at once," it said, “I have found your ignis fatui 
— I am sure of it. At any rate I have seen her, and it is 
not probable that she will leave New Orleans now, just 
as everybody eise is coming. She passed me in a car- 
riage, attended by a man, of whom I can only say that 
he was blonde, and I think, good-looking; well-dressed 
he was at all events. They were driving rapidly, and 
just as they passed me her light veil blew fairly off; she 
was laughing, and half-arose to clutch at the flying veil. 
I saw her squarely for just a moment, but it w-as the face 
of your fair fleeing one, 1 am sure of it. From that one 
glimpse of her I should say she is not taking the world 
very seriously. When you come I will lend you my val- 
uable aid. Why can’t a reporter hunt for a pretty face in 
a crowd, as well as a detective?" 

This letter caused Stanhope to rush to his hotel, 
make a few of those haphazard dashes and thrusts at his 
valises which men call packing, and rush away to 
stow himself on board the train, which, happily for him, 
was leaving Omaha within the hour, having first sent a 
message by wire to Jones, to announce his coming. 

Once in New Orleans, Stanhope had lost no time in 
searching the highways and byways, seeking for a glimpse 
of the baffling face which seemed to be flitting always 
before him and just beyond his reach; but the day of the 
carnival came and found Stanhope and his willing aids 
still searching and still without success. 

Very soon after reaching New Orleans, the detective 


DOCTOR AND DETECTIVE 


157 


had looked up young Baring and renewed their brief ac- 
quaintance; later he had made the young fellow known 
to Jones, and finally they had established themselves to- 
gether; or, rather, Jones and Stanhope had taken rooms 
in the house in which Baring had been established for 
some time. 

They were snug rooms, in a house built upon the 
“apartment” plan and inhabited almost exclusively by 
bachelors and students, who dined where they would, and 
lived gayly or gravely as it pleased them. 

Stanhope was smoking in their small sitting-room, and 
hungrily wondering why Jones did not make his appear- 
ance at their appointed luncheon hour, when the object 
of his thoughts appeared, bouncing in suddenly and 
breathlessly and turning to close the door after him 
with a sharp click; there was a flash of excitement in 
his light blue eyes, and Stanhope, seeing it, greeted him 
with the cool query, “What’s up, Jones?" 

“Something in your line, my boy.” Jones, who was a 
small fellow, and looked quite diminutive beside this mus- 
cular young detective, was fond of calling him “boy," 
while the appellation rather amused Stanhope, who in- 
deed was the younger of the two. There’s a queer case 
over at the ‘Victor’ and I want you to go down with me. 
Doctor Garland and Baring are going in, protession- 
ally you know; and they’ll take us along, if we can’t get 
in on our own merits.” 

“What’s the case?” asked Stanhope continuing to 
smoke and not particularly interested. 

“Well, murder or suicide or sudden death — a young 
woman found dead in her room in her carnival- dress, 
unknown, unattended, a total mystery.” 

Stanhope got up and tossed away his cigar. 

“Why can’t we get in as spectators without the doc- 
tor?” he asked. 


458 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Well they^re full of tone at the Victor; it’s a very 
swell house. They won’t have a mob, a crush, there; 
policemen guard the entrance even until the inquest — the 
examination — is over. Dr. Garland makes the au — ” 

Someone interrupted his speech by tapping at the door. 
He opened it quickly, and admitted a tab, slender, 
serious-faced man young yet by years, but by virtue of 
his gravity seeming old. 

"Doctor Garland!" exclaimed Jones; "are you come to 
take us under your wing and so into the Victor?” 

Doctor Garland was young Baring’s preceptor, and he 
had met these two in the rooms of his pupil; as he 
entered the room, closely followed by Baring he smiled 
at Jones while he addressed Stanhope: 

"I don’t wish to seem curious, Mr. Stanhope, but I have 
gathered from some random words of this young man's," 
nodding toward Baring, "that you are a detective. Is 
that true? I do not ask from curiosity alone.” 

Stanhope bowed. 

"I do not care to make my business conspicuous,” he 
said, "but I do. not like to deny it unnecessaril3\ I am 
not ashamed of it." 

"Now, doctor," cried Baring, "that’s hardly fair. How 
did I accomplish this slip of the tongue." 

"When you refused to name his occupation,” smiled 
the doctor, "you see I thought there could hardly be 
two Stanhopes. But let me explain: you were in San 
Francisco, were you not, two years ago?” 

Stanhope nodded. 

"Do you remember the woman who was robbed on the 
cars while on the way to her brother, who was ill in a 
fever hospital?" 

"Yes." 

"Well — that woman was my sister; it was I who, while 
in attendance at the hospital, was myself stricken down. 


DOCNOR AND DETECTIVE 


459 


I have always hoped to meet you sometime, to be ableto 
thank you.” 

Stanhope flushed and looked uneasy. 

“What did he do? ” interrupted the little reporter. “Tell 
us, Doc.” 

“Nothing,” broke in Stanhope, “nothing at all. Jones, 
we are detaining Doctor Garland.” 

“He was on the same train,” said the doctor, 'turning 
to Jones. “My sister discovered her loss before they 
reached San Francisco; she was.robbed at night in the 
sleeping-car. Mr. Stanhope did not make himself 
known; of course there was more or less hue and cry, 
when she found that she had been robbed; but he as- 
tonished people very much, after the excitement had 
lulled somewhat, by pouncing upon two fellows, when 
they were together in close conversation, leveling two 
pistols at their heads and forcing them to disgorge. They 
were very harmless-looking fellows indeed, and but for 
him would have gotten off unsuspected. He would accept 
no reward from my sister, and it was only at her ear- 
nest entreaty that he condescended to tell his name. He 
gave her a half-promise to come to her in the city, but 
he never came.” 

“That’s just like him,” cried Jones, all aglow with 
friendly admiration. “I could tell you worse things than 
that about him.” 

“Well don’t do it,” broke in Stanhope. “I’m glad to 
have met you. Doctor Garland, but'that small matter on 
the Frisco train is not worth mentioning; I knew the 
fellows; they were black-listers, and I could have done 
no less. Anybody else could have done as much if they 
had known their men as I did. 

“Oh, of course; ” said Jones filliping his fingers in air, 
anyone could have done the same, anyone. Come, doctor, 
are you going to take us all in?” 


460 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“I think I must. Certainly Mr. Stanhope is the very 
man. He is more needed than I, no doubt. But if he 
likes to take a first look with me, and does not care to 
be known, I’ll call him my student.” 

“I’m not in search of a case,” said Stanhope, “and 
don’t care to be known for what I am. But I’ll go 
with you, doctor, and many thanks.” 


CHAPTER L 


FOUL PLAY 

There was no change in room 99, when Doctor Garland 
and the young men entered it, except that the bed, 
whereon the dead woman lay, had been drawn but 
from the alcove and now stood near the center of the 
room. Its still occupant lay just as when the clerk and 
the housekeeper came out and turned the key upon this 
carnival mystery. 

Owing to some unaccustomed absence, for which the 
day was no doubt accountable, those officers of justice 
who are usually prompt to arrive upon such a scene, 
were still “conspicuous by their absence,” and Doctor 
Garland’s party found their arrival anxiously waited for. 

Acting upon Stanhope’s suggestion, the doctor went 
first to the room, accompanied only by young Baring. 

“If upon seeing the woman you think it well to bring 
me in, I suppose you can easily do so. It may prove 
less a sensation than these people think it,” Stanhope 
had said, and the doctor had nodded his agreement, and 
hastened after the clerk, who greeted them at the bottom 
of the stairs, while the host of the Victor waited in 
solemn anxiety at the top. 

When they were within the room, the doctor went 
straight to the bedside and lifted one of the lifeless 
hands; twice and again he went from one side of the 
bed to the other, and if he lifted an arm or stirred in 
the least the soft laces about her shoulders, or the pil- 
lows upon which her head rested, he was careful to 

461 


462 


A SLENDER CLUE 


replace it again, with quick eye, and accustomed touch. 

His movements surprised the three, who looked on 
wonderingly. Somehow they were not just the move 
ments they had looked for — from a physician. If Stan- 
hope had been present he would have said that Doctor 
Garland was beginning more like a detective than a 
doctor. 

When he had thus surveyed the bed and its burden, 
he moved away from it, and cast a rapid glance about 
the room. He noted its order, and let his eye rest for a 
moment upon the fur-trimmed cloak lying across the 
trunk in the recess. Then he turned and addressed tlie 
1 andlord: 

“If you will kindly leave the room, all of you, and send 
up the taller of the two gentlemen who came with me, 
you will do me a favor. I do not hesitate to say to you 
Mr. Fauvier, that this looks like a bad case.” 

Mr. Fauvier was a true Southerner, and so, also, was 
Doctor Garland. Mr. Fauvier knew the doctor well, and 
esteemed him highly. In two minutes Stanhope tapped 
at the door of room 99, and being bidden to enter, 
found the doctor standing alone, with arms folded, beside 
the bed. 

As he closed the door the doctor advanced. 

“Mr. Stanhope,” he said, “this is a case for you. 
Look at that woman, and tell me, if you think she ever 
laid herself down and composed herself to sleep, or to 
die, like that." He stepped aside and the detective 
walked toward the bed and looked down upon the still 
figure as it lay with the face turned from him; then he 
walked slowly around the bed and stood upon the oppo- 
site side, pausing near the foot to look again at the re- 
cumbent figure. As his eyes rested upon the white face, 
he started slightly, moved quickly forward, and bent to 
scrutinize it more closely; then the doctor saw him 


FOUL PLAY 


46:5 


Start backward and bring his two hands upward in a 
gesture difficult to understand; again he gazed fixedly, 
moving backward, and then coming nearer; and all the 
while a growing excitement was manifest in his face. 

The doctor was watching him narrowly, and when he 
finally lifted his eyes and said quietly: 

“Will you send for Jones, Doctor Garland?” The doc- 
tor, now in full sympathy, went straight to the door and 
said to young Baring, who with the clerk had mounted 
guard in the hall: 

"Ask Mr. Jones to come up, will you. Baring? 

In a moment the reporter appeared, and Doctor Gar- 
land, who had waited for him at the door, drew him in- 
side and turned the key, which the clerk had slipped 
into the lock upon the inside, with a significant gesture. 

"Jones," said Stanhope, standing still in the place 
where the doctor had left him, "come here, around here 
where I stand." 

Solemn and wondering much, Jones came and stood 
beside him, and responsive to a gesture, fixed his eyes 
upon the face before him. 

Then suddenly he turned and clutched Stanhope^s arm 
with both hands. 

“Stanhope!" he exclaimed breathlessly — "why, do you 
see! — is it — is it — " he broke off abruptly and began to 
thrust about in his pockets; so excited for the moment 
as to seem to have forgotten where to put his hand 
upon a large pocket-book, which, finally, he found and 
drew forth; while Stanhope, who evidently understood 
his movements, stood gravely by and waited. 

When the reporter had opened the pocket-book and 
taken from it a cabinet photograph. Stanhope took it 
quietly from his hand saying: 

"One moment, Jones; Doctor Garland will you look at 
this?" 


31 


464 


A SLENDER CLUE 


The doctor came around to them and took the picture 
from the detective’s hand, then for a moment there was 
utter stillness in the room while Stanhope and Jones 
watched the doctor’s face narrowly. 

A long steady look at the pictured face, a quick glance 
into the faces of his companions, and then Doctor Gar- 
land moved nearer the bed and looked again and again 
from the picture in his hand to the face upon the pil- 
low. Then he turned again toward Stanhope. 

"It is the original of the picture," he said in a tone of 
conviction. 

"I’m afraid it is," said Stanhope. "If so, it’s the 
end of a long search. I don’t like to believe the evi- 
dence of my own senses; what- did they tell you about 
this dead woman, doctor?" 

"Nothing save that she was unknown, except by the 
name upon the register, which no doubt is fictitious, 
and that the party or parties who brought her here have 
abandoned her. " 

"Doctor," said Stanhope abruptly, “you sent for me — 
why?” 

"Because there has been foul play. I think we shall 
prove that this woman died by poison. Do you not see 
that she lies as if placed there by other hands, not prone 
upon the back, with the chin elevated as would be nat- 
ural, nor entirely upon the side, the head well over and 
chin a little depressed, but half-way between the two, in 
a most unnatural and uncomfortable position, with the 
head back and the chin* elevated, the head and shoulders 
held in position by the pillows which have been adjusted 
for this purpose; you will perceive that the lower half 
of the body is not tur7ied, but merely appears to be, by 
the disposition of the drapery." 

"You think," asked Jones, while Stanhope stood look- 


FOUL PLAY 


465 


ing down at the-body and seemingly absorbed in thought, 
"you think that she was poisoned?" 

‘I fear it,” replied the doctor; ‘ and, gentlemen, let 
me suggest that you keep anything that you have to say 
concerning the identity of this body, until the inquest 
is called; which will be — as soon as we have completed 
the examination.” 

"Doctor,” said Stanhope, moving away from the bed 
and toward the door, "I find that I must take an active 
part in this business; your suggestion is good, and I will 
ask you to do me a favor.” 

"Name it.” 

"Introduce me at once to the proprietor of this house. 
I must get his consent, and make some investiga- 
tions.” 

"I will introduce you with pleasure; Mr. Fauvier is my 
personal friend. Shall it be in — ” 

"In my professional character?” interposed Stanhope. 
"By all means.” 


CHAPTER LI 


THE EVIDENCE OF A DETECTIVE 

There 'was no indication of the gayety going on with- 
out, in the room where the dead girl lay, and where the 
coroner and his jury were assembled. 

Strict oversight, and the well-known exclusiveness of 
the Hotel Victor, had kept out the throng of simply 
curious, and yet the room of death, and the other, 
which connected with it, and which for this occasion 
had been vacated by its occupants, and thrown open 
for the coroner^ s use, was full of grave, expectant 
faces. 

A few of the Victor’s guests were there, admitted 
by favor. There were reporters, representatives of 
the city’s press, each intent upon adding a soupcon of 
horror to the carnival rehearsal in preparation for their 
respective journals. They were sharpening their pen- 
cils, and exchanging low-voiced greetings and com- 
ments, with friendly bohemianism — all save one, who 
was seated aloof from the rest, and with true Ameri- 
can enterprise, and keen pointed Faber, had already writ- 
ten at the top of a page in his note-book this startling 
head-line: 


"A DEAD QUEEN OF CARNIVAL 

THE MYSTERY OF MARDI GRAS,” 

this auspicious beginning proving him possessed of at 
least one of the gifts that go to the making of the 
successful writer of sensational romances. 

466 


THE EVIDENCE OF A DETECTIVE 


467 


There were two or three physicians, brother practi- 
tioners, well-known and capable, called by request of 
Doctor Garland, to corroborate such testimony as he 
was able to give, and a group of servants of the house, 
some called as witnesses, others at hand to do such 
services as might be required of them. 

Doctor Garland stood, with young Baring, his assist- 
ant, a little aloof, conversing in low tones with the 
other physicians; and on the opposite side of the room, 
Mr. Fauvier, Stanhope and Jones stood together, saying 
little, but seeming to understand each other. The cor- 
oner, too, had been in conversation with Stanhope, and 
it was noticeable that from time to time, as the inquest 
progressed, he consulted, in turn, a slip of paper which 
he held in liis hand, and the face of the detective. 

The first witness called was the day-clerk, who told 
of the discovery of the body, and his subsequent in- 
quiries concerning the entry upon the register. 

"Room 99 was taken more than a month .ago. The 
entry upon the register is in my handwriting. I have no 
recollection of the manner in which the room was se- 
cured; probably it w<is by telegraph; whether the tele- 
gram, if it was a telegram, came from New York City, 
or from some other point, I would not have been likely 
to take note. I was not on duty when the occupants of 
room 99 arrived. No. I was not present during the in- 
vestigation which followed the discovery of the body. 
1 entered the room with Doctors Garland and Baring, 
and when Doctor Garland asked for that gentleman," 
pointing to Stanhope, "I left the room and did not 
enter it again until the opening of this inquiry." 

The night-clerk was next called. 

"Yes," he said, "I remember about 99, distinctly. I 
was thinking that the house must be already overfull, 
and that my night would be easy; I had not been on 
watch more than an hour when he came." 


468 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"He?" said the coroner. 

"Yes, sir. An- expressman it was, or a drayman. He 
brought that trunk; it had a card, with ‘Mr. and Mrs. 
Jones, N. Y.,’ written in ink upon it." The witness 
pointed toward the trunk which still stood in the re- 
cess. 

"Go on," said the coroner. 

"He was an honest looking fellow, and he said that the 
gentleman that had taken room 99 had sent him on with 
the trunk. The gentleman was to take su*pper with a 
party of friends, and he said that the room was to be 
made ready for him. I thought it must be all right, 
the name on the trunk corresponded with that on the 
register. I sent a porter to take the trunk to this room." 

"What became of the key?" asked the coroner. 

"The porter brought it back, I am sure, and I put it 
in its usual place. We are very particular about these 
things. " 

"Do you remember who came for it?" 

"No. I c*an’t remember. After twelve o’clock they 
began to pour in, half a dozen at a time, and called for 
their keys; I suppose this man mus^ have come in with 
a party — he could easily have done so. He did not 
register." 

"Then you can’t remember anything about this key?" 

"Nothing," said the clerk, regretfully. 

"Is this a common occurrence?" asked the coroner, 
somewhat severely. "Are you apt to let guests go and 
come with so little notice?" 

"It is not a common occurrence;" said the clerk with 
dignity, "but the occasion was unusual; we were over- 
worked, overcrowded. I don’t think that my employers 
would consider me culpably careless, sir." 

"That will do." 

The clerk turned away, and encountering the approv* 


THE EVIDENCE OF A DETECTIVE 


469 


ing eye of his employer, bowed his acknowledgment, 
and passed to his place. 

The coroner consulted his slip of paper, and then 
looked up. 

*Ts Mr. — Mr. Henry Weston in the room?" he asked. 

A young man with a round and convivial face came 
promptly forward, and confronted the coroner. 

"Are you the young man who sent Mr. Fauvier your 
card?” asked the coroner. 

"I sent Mr. Fauvier my card, yes, sir,” said the wit- 
ness briskly. 

"Is this the card?” he extended a card to the young 
man who took it, looked at it, turned it over, and then 
said: 

"That is the card, your honor.” 

"Upon this card you have written that you have some 
testimony to offer. What is it?” 

Mr. Weston^s testimony was most interesting. 

. "I have been here three days,” he said, "taking in the 
city; yesterday I went out early in the afternoon with a 
party of friends, and did not come back until after mid- 
night; we had been going about pretty lively, and only 
came in to recruit our toilets a little before going down 
to the ball on Rampart Street. We came into the office, 
all clamoring for our keys, about as this gentleman,” 
bowing toward the night clerk, "has described it; I think 
it very probable that the occupant of this room took ad- 
vantage of our noisy entrance to secure his key.” 

"Have you a reason for that opinion.” 

"I have. The others — there were five of us — went up 
ahead of me; I lingered behind for two or three min- 
utes, as nearly as I can guess; when I started from the 
office the house seemed very quiet; almost every one 
must have been out on the street, or dancing somewhere; 
it was late to be going out, and early to be coming in. 


470 


^ SLENDER CLUE 


When I got to the foot of the stairs I saw a man almost 
at the top; he was going up and he carried a woman in 
his arms.” 

There was a stir and profound sensation in the room; 
all looked startled, or surprised, except Mr. Fauvier and 
Richard Stanhope. 

"Go on,” said the coroner, after a moment’s pause. 

‘T had better say, in partial explanation of my lack 
of memory, that we had all imbibed a little, and I sup- 
pose my head was not quite clear; my room is on the hall 
below this one; and I was just about to pass the man 
with his burden, when he stopped at this door, and 
pushed it open with his foot; as he turned to go in I 
distinctly saw a glimmer of scarlet drapery underneath 
a fur-trimmed cloak, and. one hand and arm half bare, 
hanging loosely over his arm. I was much astonished, 
and stopped ^t the door. 

‘T think I was about to go boldly in and proffer my 
assistance, when the man appeared in the doorway and 
said in a very courteous manner: Sir, my wife has 

fainted from a fright in the street; will you kindly run 
downstairs and ask them to send me a pitcher of ice- 
water at once? — It will be the quickest way.” 

‘T rushed downstairs and ordered the water; when I 
came back the door was closed, and I heard my compan- 
ions calling to me from the next landing. I hurried on 
to my room, and in a few moments they all came clam- 
oring in. I hastened my preparations, and we went out. 
I did not even think of the sick woman again; and 1 did 
not come in until noon to day; then I heard of this 
affair, and sent my card at once to Mr. Fauvier here.” 

The coroner turned and pointed toward the bed. 

“Would you know the woman?" he asked. 

“No; her head was muffled in something, a veil I should 
think. I was sure of nothing but the cloak and the red 
drapery.” 



-HE WAS GOING UP, AND HE CAERIED A WOMAN IN HIS AEMS.’‘ 

—Slender Clue, p. 470. 





THE El^I PENCE OF A DETECTIVE 


4^1 


"Look at that body if you please. ’’ 

The witness approached the bed and looked down. 

"It is the red drapery," he said, ‘T am sure of it." 

"And the cloak?" 

Doctor Garland’s assistant came forward and held the 
fur-trimmed cloak up to view. 

"It was such a garment," said the witness. "I can’t 
speak as to the shape of course, but it looked like 
that." 

"Can you describe the man?" 

"Not definitely. He did not seem to me much above 
the medium height; he walked firmly, even with his 
burden; he wore a long loose fitting outer coat. Hat of 
soft felt, pulled well down over his eyebrows. I can’t 
say much for his face, except that he had a profusion of 
black hair and beard. But I was impressed with his 
voice, which was very courteous indeed. He spoke like 
a man of culture and refinement." 

The servant who received the order for water from the 
accommodating witness, was called, and came forward 
at a signal from Mr. Fauvier. 

His testimony was brief and explanatory. 

"I came up with the water at once," he said, "but 
the young man had made a mistake I suppose, anyway 
I was told to go to room 90, and there I went. I knocked 
two or three times, and then tried the door; it was 
locked. I tried the next room, and that was locked ; then 
I took back the pitcher, thinking someone had played 
me a trick." 

The witness was dismissed, and the coroner drew him- 
self more erect in h’s chair, while the gravity of his 
countenance increased. He consulted the paper in bis 
hand, seemed to consider for a moment, and then called 
for Richard Stanhope. When the young man came 
forward it was evident to the reporters in the further 


472 


A SLENDER CLUE 


room from that, that an important witness was before 
them. Doctor Garland and his assistant exchanged 
glances, and drew closer together; Mr. Fauvier came nearer 
the coroner, and Mr. Jones, the reporter, showed signs 
of increasing interest. 

While Stanhope was making his way forward, there was 
a stir and some whispering among the jury, and one of 
them leaned forward and said: 

“I think, Mr. Coroner, that there are a few other 
questio'ns to be put to those witnesses you have just dis- 
missed. This gentleman at my right wants to know — 

"The witnesses are dismissed, ” replied the coroner 
calmly. "In good time the jury shall have opportunity 
to question any or all of the witnesses." 

The spokesman for the jury subsided into his chair, 
and the gentleman on his right, a little eager-faced per- 
son, looked quenched but not satisfied. * 

"Mr. Stanhope," said the coroner gravely, "I think it 
well be well to begin by informing the gentlemen of the 
jury in regard to yourself, your residence and profes- 
sion. " 

Stanhope bowed to the coroner and the gentlemen of 
the jury. 

"I do not usually speak of myself as a professional 
character," he said smiling; "my calling is that of a de- 
tective, and I am too much of a rover to call any one 
place my home. I have been a detective since my boy- 
hood, and my life has been pretty evenly divided be 
tween the great cities of the North. Perhaps I have giv- 
en the preference to New York and Chicago." 

"Are you willing to make known the nature of the 
business that brought you to New Orleans?" 

"Perfectly; my visit is ‘p^'o^^ssional.’ I have been en- 
gaged much of the time since May last searching for a 
missing girl, or for some news of her. She disappeared 


THE EVIDENCE OF A DETECTIVE 47^ 

from her home in the North on the eve of her wedding, 
and there has been much difference of opinion as to her 
probable fate; there was some pretty strong evidence of 
foul play, for there was a discarded and revengeful lover 
in the case ; but there was quite as much to indicate 
that she had prefered to run away rather than be 
married; a second party was put upon guard over the 
suspected lover, and I began a search through various 
cities. As an aid in my search, we caused a large num- 
ber of photographs to be copied from one which was in 
the possession of this same lover, and these I sent to 
detectives and' heads of bureaus in various cities. I 
also sent one to a friend of mine, a reporter in New 
York, one Mr. Lewis Jones.” 

There was a little ripple of excitement; young Jones 
was known to most of the reporters. Baring turned to- 
ward him with a look of surprise and increased expec- 
tancy, and one reporter leaned toward another and whis- 
pered — 

‘‘He^s making thunder for that fellow Jones. That 
fellow’s a sharp one.” 

“Umph!” returned the other. "Making thunder for 
himself, more lil^ly, looking out for a fat job. Do you 
call it sharp to give away his business? supposing that 
it’s true — his story?” 

"Hist!” cautioned the first speaker. "That witness 
knows what he’s about.” 

• "If your honor and the jury are willing,” resumed Stan- 
hope, "I would like to give my story, or as much of it 
as is required, in my own way. I will answer all neces- 
sary questions afterward.” 

The coroner looked up. There were nods of assent 
from the jury, and Stanhope resumed: 

"Mr. Jones found or thought he had found traces of 
this missing’ girl in New York, and I went there; but the 


474 


A SLENDER CLUE 


clue was lost, or the girl was gone. Mr. Jones and I con- 
tinued to correspond; and less than two weeks ago, while 
I was in Omaha, I received a hasty note from him ; he 
was already established in this city, and wrote to in- 
form me that he believed he had seen the girl I was in 
search of upon the streets here, and advising me to come 
at once, which I did. The rooms which Mr. Jones and 
I occupy in common are opposite or nearly opposite 
those of Doctor Garland, and it was through his courte- 
sy that I was admitted to this room.” 

“Mr. Fauvier tells me,” said the Coroner slowly, hav- 
ing first consulted the paper in his hand, “that,, acting 
upon Doctor Garland’s suggestion, and previous to the 
medical examination, you made a thorough examination 
of the room; what did you discover?” 

“Very little; it is more than probable that the man 
who carried the woman, as described by Mr. Weston, 
simply laid the body upon the bed and left it there, 
making good his escape. Everything indicates that the 
affair was planned, and executed according to program. 
The trunk standing there contains a few articles of 
clothing, unmarked, and of the kind that can be bought 
in any shop, some current magazines, find a good many 
newspapers. I think it probable that it was never used, 
and perhaps never owned, by the person or persons who 
brought it here. It was simply a part of the program. 
When I assisted the doctor to lift the body from the 
bed, a small roll of bank-bills fell from the folds of her 
garments. The money had evidently been so placed that 
it would naturally be discovered by those to whom the 
body was given in charge. Nothing had been disturbed; 
the chambermaid declares the room, with the exception 
of the bed and the trunk, is precisely as she left it.” 

“And this is all that you discovered?”* asked the 
coroner. 


THE El^IDENCE OF A DETECTIVE i /5 

“It is not all. When Doctor Garland sent for me, I 
came to see a woman unknown, nameless, abandoned in 
death to the mercy of strangers. Doctor Garland, think- 
ing that h^ saw something peculiar in the posture of 
the body, called me to the bedside, and I saw” — he 
lifted his hand to a pocket in the breast of his coat — “I 
saw what I believed to be the body of the girl I have 
been searching after for more than half a year.” 

He drew from the pocket a large envelope and handed 
it to the coroner. 

“That is the picture of Bertha Warham,” he said. 
“Doctor Garland, Mr. Jones, and Mr. Fauvier are ail 
of my opinion. Your honor can judge for yourself.” 


CHAPTER LII 


THE doctor’s evidence 

In the long silence that ensued, the coroner arose and 
went with the picture in his hand toward the bed. 
Then, slowly, one by one, obedient to his gesture, the 
jurymen approached the still form, passed the picture 
from hand to hand, and gazed awe-stricken. 

The limbs of the dead had been composed as if for 
burial; some of the unseemly carnival trappings had 
been removed, and the hair had been shorn of its deco- 
rations and arrayed after the manner of that in the pict- 
ure. This had been done at Stanhope’s suggestion, and 
it completed the likeness. Between a pictured face and 
a dead one, there could not be a closer resemblance. 

When the coroner and the jury had looked their fill 
and retaken their places, others present were permitted 
to look, and to compare; the photograph passed from 
hand to hand as before, and when all was summed up, 
there was no dissenting voice. The face of the dead 
and the face of the picture were pronounced identical. 

When at last they were all again in their places the 
coroner called Doctor Garland, who came forward gravely. 

He told his story in brief, terse sentences —how he 
had been summoned by Mr. Fauvief, and how, having 
met Detective Richard Stanhope — and knowing some- 
thing of his skill, he had thought it well to ask him to 
be present at the examination. He rehearsed in his 
turn, for the benefit of the jury, the story of the iden- 

476 


THE DOCTOR'S EVIDENCE 


-77 

tification, and told how, at his request, as well as by 
that of Mr. Fauvier, the detective had made a minute 
examination of the premises. 

"When that was done,” said the doctor, "it became 
my business to ascertain if possible the manner in which 
the unfortunate young woman came to her death. It was 
the theory of Mr. Stanhope, that a poison had been ad- 
ministered before she was brought into this house, and 
from certain signs, visible only to a practiced eye, I was 
inclined to agree with him. The., examination was thor- 
ough, and satisfactory. When Mr. Baring and myself 
had assured ourselves of the cause of death, we called in 
these other medical gentlemen, who confirmed our be- 
lief, and are ready to add their testimony to ours. Gen- 
tlemen, that young woman died by poison administered 
hypodermically. If the jury desires it I am ready to 
demonstrate. ” 

"Were you able to discover when the poison was ad- 
ministered?” asked one of the jurymen. 

"Easily; the hypodermic dose of sulphate of morphia 
was administered, without doubt, between the hours of 
eleven and twelve. She was in the death-sleep, if not 
quite dead, when she was brought here.” 

At this point there was a consultation among the jury- 
men, and Doctor Garland was requested to demonstrate 
his theory. 

He beckoned to young Baring, who came promptly 
forward and put into his hand a small leathern case, 
which he opened and passed to the juryman nearest him. 
When it had passed, like the photograph from hand 
to hand, the doctor took it again, and taking out the 
small steel cylinder of a hypodermic syringe, and fitting 
the needle upon it, gave it back to the jury for inspec- 
tion. 

"This, gentlemen,” he said, while, one after another, 

32 


478 


A SLENDER CLUE 


they viewed it, “is a hypodermic syringe. Science has 
found it possible to extract the active principles, or 
properties, of many drugs, so that a very little of the 
new extract shall be equal in power to a great deal of 
the old. 

“From opium we can get by the help of chemicals a 
fine white powder, which is called sulphate of morphia. 
This powder is much stronger than the opium from 
which it is made, and it dissolves in water easily. By 
adding water we can get a solution which may contain 
in one teaspoonful, twelve grains, or even more, of 
morphia, so that this little syringe will hold over thirty 
full doses, or twelve times as much as it would take to 
kill a strong man. 

“If you found a person dead an hour after this was 
administered, you would hardly be able to tell, by 
ordinary chemical analysis, what caused that death; 
unless you were familiar with this instrument, you 
might never guess at the truth. 

“If I draw a few drops of the morphia solution into 
this instrument, and insert the needle under the skin of 
the arm, the shoulder, any part of the body in fact, it 
causes sleep, and gives ease from pain. A little more 
will cause, in most patients, nauseating sickness; a few 
drops more, and the patient falls into a deep sleep from 
which he never wakens. As I have said, this instrument 
leaves scarcely a trace of its work; but there will always 
be, upon some part of the body, the mark of the needle, 
scarcely visible in some, and only to be discovered by 
the touch. Such a mark the patient bears upon her arm, 
and there are also several small hard spots, not larger 
than a very small pea, and very slightly discolored; 
they are so many evidences that the hypodermic dose 
was not administered last night for th^e first time. Gen- 
tlemen, this young woman died between the hours of 


THE DOCTOR'S EVIDENCE 


479 


eleven and twelve last night, from a poisonous dose of 
morphia hypodermically administered. In this opin- 
ion these other medical gentlemen will agree with me. 
Beyond this all is conjecture. I think that my work ends 
here. ” 

When Doctor Garland retired to his seat, there was 
renewed excitement among his auditors; the jurymen 
drew close together and whispered eagerly; the coroner 
consulted with Mr. Fauvier and Stanhope; the reporters 
wrote furiously. 

“Gentlemen of the jury,” said the coroner at last, “we 
will hear the corroborative evidence of these medical 
gentlemen — of Mr, Fauvier and others; after that I think 
it will be well to listen to Mr. Stanhope’s account of 
this Bertha W.arham, and his search for her.” 

Nothing new was learned from the witnesses, the two 
physicians, young Baring, Mr. Fauvier, the housekeeper, 
and two or three of the servants of the house. Their 
words strengthened the evidence given by the clerks, Mr. 
Weston, Stanhope, and Doctor Garland; and tliey did no 
more. 

Then, at length, from the beginning, Stanhope told 
the story of Bertha Warham’s disappearance — of his 
search for her in various cities, and his reasons for be- 
lieving that the girl, in search of a career, had fallen 
into the hands of a new enemy; and ended by proffering 
a request that the jury should take means to make 
known, through the press, and in other ways, the appear- 
ance of the dead woman, and give all opportunity for 
identification. Meanwhile he would procure assistance, 
and, aided by the photograph, would search* the city 
hotels, boarding houses — all places where strangers were 
received; and if, at the expiration of a fixed time, no 
one came forward to contradict or to confirm the identi- 
fication, he desired that the body might be delivered 


480 


A SLENDER CLUB 


over to him, to be taken North for interment in the War- 
ham burial-place at Upton. 

After the usual deliberation, and rather more than 
the usual display of argumentative wisdom, on the part 
of the jury, the coroner brought in his verdict, viz: 

“That the deceased, believed upon evidence to be one 
Bertha Warham, late of Upton, died by poison, at the 
hands of parties unknown; and the jury recommended 
that the body be given into the custody of detective 
Richard Stanhope, who had been able to convince them 
of his fitness for such a trust.” 

For three days, advertisements were conspicuous in 
the papers, and posters flared about the city, while 
especially appointed officers searched in boardinghouses 
and hotels armed with hastily made copies of Bertha 
Warham’s picture. But nothing came of it. 


CHAPTER LIII 


. ENLISTING AN AMATEUR 

Stanhope’s first act, upon leaving the Victor, where 
the jury still sat in council, was to telegraph to Carnes 
as follows: 

"Body of young 7voman lying at Hotel Victor believed to be 
B. W. Hold yourself ready to go to Upton with news upon 
receipt of next message. S- ” 

This done, he rejoined Jones, Doctor Garland and 
young Baring, at their lodgings, where by previous 
arrangement, they were to sup together, in the doctor’s 
rooms. 

The events of the day had put them out of harmony 
with the festivities that were still in progress, the noises 
of the streets, their shouts, and peals of laughter ; and 
bursts of music, now near, now far away, fell upon their 
ears without rousing them to listen, or to comment. 
Even Baring, the youngest of the party, full of joyous 
youth and health and fond of the carnival gayeties, 
through not having known them too long, turned a deaf 
ear to the sounds of revelry. 

After supper they sat about the table smoking, all 
but Doctor Garland who never smoked, and talking 
about the dead girl at the Victor. 

Stanhope had touched very lightly, in telling his 
story before the coroner’s jury, upon that part of it which 
concerned Joseph Larsen; and had not mentioned his 
friend Carnes by name, only assuring the jury that the 
discarded lover was not, and could not be, the unknown 


482 


A SLENDER CLUE 


assassin, inasmuch as he was at that time an inmate of 
an insane asylum — genuinely insane. 

He had made no mention of Lucretia Warham, and 
her tragic death— and he made no mention of her now — 
but he responded to their interest in the affair, and their 
evident friendliness for himself, .by telling them of Jo- 
seph Larsen; of his maneuvers in the city, among the 
hack-drivers and street-venders, and by giving them, his 
modest version of Larsen’s appearance at the Warham 
farm-house, in the storm and darkness, making as lit- 
tle as possible of his own part in the affair, but posing 
Susan in a most advantageous light; and from this they 
naturally drifted into speculations about the murder. 

“I suppose you have no idea that this fellow may have 
set an assassin upon her track — that notion would be far- 
fetched wouldn’t it?” suggested Doctor Garland. 

“In this case it would,” replied Stanhope, “as the 
phrase is, the fellow had ‘no money and no influence,’ 
at least not enough to reach so far, and over so great a 
length of time. No, since I’ve found her here I am 
more than half-inclined to think that Larsen may 'have 
been merely raving when he told me that story. His 
conduct was not particularly sane from the first.” 

“I should think not,” said the doctor meditatively. 

“No. I’m inclined to think that we’ve all been off the 
track. We’ve got to begin over. If it turns out that 
Larsen had from first to last, no hand in her disappear- 
ance, after all, it will not surprise me; neither will it 
startle me if it comes out, that she did give him the slip 
in Chicago — evidently there’s another man in the case.” 

“It looks like it,” again said the doctor. 

Young Baring leaned across the table and looked into 
Stanhope’s face. 

“You have a theory?” he said interrogatively. 

“Yes, or the outline of one. I can fancy how such a 


HI^ISTING AN AMATEUR 


48:r 


girl as Bertha Warhani might become almost a menace 
to a man — might provoke either love or hate. She must 
have been very hard to deceive, and having been de- 
ceived, very formidable; she was a keen-witted, clever 
girl, worldly-wise beyond her years. Ergo, if we ever 
find the man who killed her, we’ll find him a clever fel- 
low, shrewder than she, and that means a great deal. 
Then, do you think that a common assassin could have 
devised and executed such a plot as this? Fancy it! 
They must have driven about, half the evening, mingling 
with the maskers; probably she was merry, and he pre- 
tended to be; women in melancholy mood don’ t go about 
tricked out as she was — this is theory, remember — when 
it grew late enough he must have administered what she 
thought to be a mere soothing dose. She had not been 
confused with wine, you gentlemen expressly declare?” 

“No,” said the doctor, “there were no evidences of 
wine; she had partaken of a light supper, that was all.” 

“Well, let us say then that while in the carriage he 
gave her this soothing dose, she submitting, perhaps 
wishing it. Or, let us say that he simply clapped a 
chloroformed handkerchief to her face and then applied 
the morphia. Mind, this looks improbable to me, for if 
he had chloroform, why use both drugs? But he was 
certainly a man of nerve and brains;, he had sent the 
trunk ahead, the room had been secured, perhaps for a 
different use in the beginning — when she was under the 
influence of the drug he had only to put his head out of 
the carriage window and say, 'my wife is ill, drive to 
the ‘Victor.’ When they arrived, a sufficient fee slipped 
into the hand of the driver would disarm curiosity; he 
could say again, ‘wait here,' rush in and secure his key, 
and, when he came out be surprised to find that his wife 
had fainted. Now a steady nerve, a light quick foot, and 
the game is his. If Mr. Weston was not mistaken in 


481 


A SLENDER CLUE • 


saying that he opened the door witli his foot, the fellow 
must have had the nerve to go upstairs and unlock the 
door before going back to the carriage— running the risk 
in being a.way too long, of the hackman’s curiosity, or 
humanity, getting the best of professional indifference. 
But see how he succeeded! Of one thing I am convinced: 
he knew his ground; he had looked it over. If he had not 
understood the arrangement of the offices and corridors 
and stairways of the ‘Victor^ he could never have car- 
ried out his plan with such dispatch. He knew where to 
go without making a false step, and he knew when to go. 
He was familiar with the habits of Mardi gras." 

"Yes,” again assented Doctor Garland; "you must be 
right.” 

“Such a man will be hard to catch — ” went on Stan- 
hope. "He will know how to make difficulties.” 

"But,” interposed young Baring eagerly, "they must 
have harbored somewhere in the city. It won’t be impos- 
sible to find the place -for you.” 

"No, we can find the place no doubt, but mark me — 
when we do find it we will find new difficulties; our 
second state will be worse than our first : if we don’t 
strike a misleading clue — we will find ourselves simply 
baffled. These are the cases that try us! One man of 
resources, when he sees fit to turn his attention to vil- 
lainy and put his wit to wrong uses, can make us more 
trouble than a dozen ordinary criminals.” 

A few moments later, Jones arose and said half-re- 
gretfully, half-whimsically: 

"In the interest of the ‘organ’ for which I blow, I 
must leave you, gentlemen. .When one has to cover a 
given number of sheets of paper, it requires less mental 
effort if he does not have to draw upon his imagination 
too severely.” 

He had scarcely quitted the room when Doctor Gar- 


BhI LISTING AN AMATEUR 


485 


land was called out; there had been an accident upon 
the street, and Stanhope and young Baring were left 
smoking in company. 

"I shall go back to the 'Victor,^ presently,” said the 
former. “Don’t stay here on my account, Mr. Baring, 
if you can find anything to interest you outside." 

“I’m out of humor for fun to-night," said Baring, 
tossing his cigar upon the ash-plate, and clasping his 
hands behind his head, while he turned to regard his 
companion with eager interest. “Mr. Stanhope, I wish I 
could do something to help this thing on. I am pretty 
well acquainted with the ins and outs of this city. 
You know I’m a Northerner, and coming here full of 
ideas about New Orleans and its history I dare say I’ve 
prowled about and explored until I know more of the 
by-ways than many a native. I don’t think I’ve had bad 
motives, but I guess I’ve been into some pretty tough 
localities here, and I’m tolerably well acquainted too — 
here and there. Now why couldn’t I join in this search 
of the city?" 

Stanhope was smoking placidly, his eyes scanning 
the face before hiin — a half-smile, provoked by, the 
young fellow’s headlong eagerness, which, by the bye, he 
understood and rather liked, upon his lips. 

“You could," he said, “if you have the time and in- 
clination — it’s more delicate work though than you 
might fancy. It won’t do to provoke suspicion. That 
might spoil all. ’’ 

“No,” said Baring; “that’s the idea I had in my mind 
— I think I might investigate in some quarters better 
than a stranger could." 

He was a fine-looking young fellow,not so tall as Stan- 
hope,and more squarely built ; there was a sturdy natural- 
ness about him, an erect straightforward cheeriness that 
was very pleasing. One of these fortunate, happy tern- 


486 


A S LEND HR CLUE 


peraments that win upon people and hold their vantage 
ground; Kenneth Baring, stranded anywhere, would be 
sure to make friends soon, and many. Stanhope was in- 
stinctively telling himself this, as he sat opposite the 
young man; and he felt strongly attracted toward him. 
His own independent, fearless spirit- recognized a kin- 
dred one. Time and experience had taught him reserve; 
and when reserve was needful, his cool independence 
was his natural cloak for it. But now he was as frank 
and good-humored as Baring, if not as eager, when he 
said: 

"I’m inclined to accept your offer, Baring. A man is 
not necessarily a bad detective because he’s an amateur." 

"Well," said Baring, “I think I might liave done 
something in your line, may be, if I had had the right 
kind of a start. As it is, I’m wedded to medicine. But 
I’m fond of investigating, experimenting. Now I like the 
microscope — don’t you?" 

Stanhope laughed. "I don’t think there’s a scientific 
hair in my head,” he said, "but I like to see what the 
microscope can show me." 

"Well," said Baring, rising and stretching himself, 
"I’ve got a splendid one — I’m one of a little clique of 
fellows who like to ride a hobby, now and then. We’ve 
got a new one just now. Barker, that’s one of us, has 
almost converted us to some novel beliefs that he holds 
about human hair. He thinks there’s character in it; 
its texture, quantity, color, all mean something. I don’t 
go so far as Barker, not yet, but I’m interested in the 
color question. It’s a common fallacy that hair must 
be either black or white, light brown or dark, red, 
yellow or gray. Now we have secured and classified 
already twenty-nine distinct shades of blonde hair, 
blonde mind you, not brown or red, and I think I am 
going to add a thirtieth shade to the columns. You 


ENLISTING AN AMATEUR 


487 


may not have noticed it, but I managed to secure a few 
stray threads from the head of that poor girl to-day — it’s 
of a rare color.” 

He took a folded bit of paper from his pocket, opened 
it and displayed, upon the palm of his hand, a tiny coil 
of yellow threads, not a dozen hairs in all. ‘‘Pm going to 
put this under the instrument," he said. 

"Well,” said Stanhope, consulting his watch, "Pve 
learned a new thing — thirty shades of blonde! No won- 
der, we poor fellows are puzzled. I think Pll go up to 
the Victor, Baring; do you care too keep me company? 
I shall try to hang on until that jury arrives at a con- 
clusion." 

The jury had not arrived at a conclusion when they 
reached the Victor, and as the prospect of their so 
doing seemed remote, the two young men agreed to take 
a turn upon the brilliant street. As they emerged from, 
the great building a man who had seemed in the act of 
entering, stopped and turned to look at them. 

Over his shoulder young Baring saw the movement,, 
and half-halted, but the stranger quickly averted his 
gaze, and seeming to abandon his design of entering the 
hotel, walked briskly down the street. 

As the man passed them, he noticed a broad ray of 
light, shining out from the office window and, in it, the 
stranger’s profile stood out for an instant vividly distinct. 

With a smothered ejaculation. Stanhope started for- 
ward, as if to follow, then checked ^himself and drew 
back. 

"Anything wrong?" queried Baring. 

Stanhope gave a short laugh. 

"If you could tell me just why I made that move," 
he said, "you would do me a favor!" 

"Instinct,” suggested Baring. 

"Superstition, more likely. But now that I think, I 


488 


4 SLENDER CLUE 


believe it must have been a fancied resemblance. That 
one sharp glimpse of his face as he passed us — well, 
when I see him again, I shall know him, I dare say. 
One gets these fancies sometimes from carrying a pict- 
ure gallery in one^s head. I wonder if I have seen 
that fellow before, and where? The fact is, Baring, 
this is the second puzzling resemblance 1 have encoun- 
tered to-day, and they both give me a queer sensation of 
responsibility; I feel as if I were wronging myself, or 
somebody else, through not being able to bring my 
memory to time." 

On the following morning. Stanhope received a long 
letter from Rufus Carnes. 

"The prosecution of ‘Charles Jinkins’ still hangs 
fire," it said, "thanks to the lawyer I have been able 
to secure. But this sort of thing can’t last forever. Jin- 
kins persists in keeping us in the dark concerning his 
identity. He is gaining in health — and in obstinacy. 
If we can’t bring him to terms soon we shall not be 
able to save him. Sharp & Co. have patched together a 
strong net-work of circumstantial evidence. 

"As for Larsen, his case looks more hopeful; there is 
now a prospect that he may recover his reason; there 
will always be danger of relapse, the doctors say. 
But let them patch him up so that he can give lucid 
testimony, so that I can compel him to save this unfort- 
unate, obstinate Jinl^ins, and he may end his days in 
an insane asylum if he prefers that to the gallows. 
Justice first — etc. I have no mercy for the murderer of 
his mother. 

"According to your request I have informed myself 
about matters at Upton. Old man Warham is in a 
very critical state of health — that is to say, his recovery 
is deemed impossible; his death, only a question of 


ENLISTING AN AMATEUR 


481 ) 


time. How clever the doctors are! As if we did not all 
labor under some disease, mental, moral, or physical; 
from which recovery is impossible. As if the end for 
all of us were not merely — a matter of time. 

"I am anxious to hear from you. Have been wondering 
what took you to New Orleans; was it the carnival? or 
have you struck again the trail of your ignis faiuusT' 

This is a portion of the letter which Stanhope re- 
ceived, soon after his telegram to Carnes was read by 
that astonished philosopher; and two days later, another 
message went flying northward: 

“B. W. was found dead, by poison, at Hotel Victor, 
yesterday. Go to Upton and prepare them. I start 
with the body to-night. Stanhope.” 


CHAPTER LIV 


PUZZLING RESEMBLANCES 

Richard Stanhope saw the body of Bertha Warhan: 
laid to rest in the pretty tree-shaded cemetery at Upton, 
and passed three dreary days at the Warham farm-house, 
where John Warham, his mind now sorrowfully at rest 
concerning the fate of his youngest and favorite daugh- 
ter, seemed to have lost his motive for living, and lay 
stoically fading out of life, watched over by the faith- 
ful Susan, who was now lady paramount at the farm- 
house. 

During the weeks that had passed since the arrest of 
Charlie Jinkins, Stanhope had given some thought to the 
sad plight of this unfortunate, having been put in posses- 
sion of all the points by Carnes; and before he left Up- 
ton he had asked Susan for a private audience, and told 
her of the arrest of "Jinkins," and of the web of circum- 
stantial evidence that might prove strong enough to jeop- 
ardize life, if help in some form were not forthcoming. 

"I have not seen this ‘Jinkins,’” he concluded, "but 
my friend seems to think well of him, in spite of his 
self-abandonment; and believing as we both do that 
Joseph Larsen is the murderer of Mrs. Warham, we feel 
that we must save the man in some way. Now if this 
case comes to trial before Larsen recovers, if he does 
recover, may we coynt upon your evidence.^^ You under- 
stand, of course that if Larsen does not confess, we 
must make out a case against him that will at least 
affect the testimony Sharp & Co. will bring in. If the 

490 


PUZZLING RESEMBLANCES 


491 


case comes into court, my friend and I must come for- 
ward and tell what we know about this affair, and we 
can certainly make out as strong a case against Larsen 
as they have found against this Jinkins — with your 
help.” 

"If I am called upon to tell what I know,” said Susan 
stanchly, "I shall tell it — I think that Joe Larsen killed 
his aunt Lucretia, and I believe he’s at the bottom of 
all poor Bertha’s troubles.” 

Stanhope looked at her keenly; he believed that she 
knew more than she was prepared to admit. Her utter 
want of curiosity when Larsen went into that last fit of 
madness beside the coffin of his mother, and his knowl- 
edge of her keen observation and native shrewdness, 
made him sure that she knew, or surmised, the truth. 

After a moment’s thought he said: "You were witness 
to Mrs. Warham’s will?” 

“Plow did you know that?” she asked quickly. 

Stanhope smiled. 

"Perhaps I guessed it. Am I right?” 

, Susan nodded. 

"And you knew the purport of the will?” 

"Yes. ” 

"Do you know why it is not forthcoming?” 

"Yes. Lucretia had a queer whim. The will is safe 
enough; she did not want it produced or opened until 
she had been dead six mcmths. ” 

"Do you think that Larsen knew this?” 

"I am sure he did not. 

"Now listen! this is my belief: When they met in the 
city, Larsen and Mrs. Warham, I believe that, for some 
reason she told him that she had made him her sole 
heir. Perhaps she wanted to influence him, to win him 
over from his madness about Miss Warham. But, I 
believe that he said to himself, Tf I kill her, her money 


492 


/i SLENDER CLUE 


may help me to win Bertha back!' If he had known 
that he would have to wait six months for his fortune 
he might not have taken her life.” 

“Oh,” interpolated Susan, “that might have made 
him take it — in a fit of rage.” 

Stanhope studied a square in the carpet for a moment, 
and then said with seeming carelessness, watching her 
face furtively the while: 

“Why did she choose him for her heir, do you sup- 
pose?” 

He saw her quick lift of the head, a sudden guarded 
movement, and smiled slightly as she said sharply: 

“They’re related.” 

“Are they?” suddenly meeting her eye fully. “How, 
Miss Susan?” 

She looked at him fixedly for a moment, then — 

“If that poor shiftless fellow in jail comes to trial, 
and it seems necessary. I’ll tell all I know to save him. 
Isn’t that what 3^ou want, young man?” 

“That is all I want,” he said, and he knew, by the 
firm closing of her lips, that it was all he would get — 
in the way of information — at that time, on that sub- 
ject. 

Before noon on the following day he was closeted 
with Carnes, listening to all that he had to tell and tell- 
ing all that had not yet been told. They talked much 
of Bertha Warham and her tragic fate; Carnes was puz- 
zled and disturbed; it was out of harmony with all his 
beliefs and theories, this ghastly fact that had confronted 
Richard Stanhope so unexpectedly in the Carnival City. 

They talked of Larsen who was beginning to have 
intervals of calm that were almost like sanity — the in- 
tervals growing longer with each recurrence. 

“They won’t allow me to talk with him yet,” said 
Carnes. “This is the critical time — they say. Nothing 


PUZZLING RESEMBLANCES 


493 


must remind him of the past in any of its unpleasant 
phases until he has passed a rigid examination and the 
exact state of his nervous system ascertained. It's vil- 
lainously sIqw — this business.” 

“Well,” argued Stanhope, "it looks reasonable; the 
man will need a supply of nerve, as well as his senses, 
not to be driven back into delirium by such an accusa- 
tion as you will bring against him. He's an ill-balanced 
creature at his best — more than half-wild animal. I 
tell you old man. Pm tired of theorizing about these 
people. I m going back to New Orleans, to dig for 
facts. ’* 

"And I," said Carnes ruefully, -"needs must stay here 
to wait for facts to develop. By George! I wish you 
would see that stubborn fellow Jinkins! ‘There's the 
calmness of despair for you! The fellow's been down 
on his back so long that he obstinately refuses to be 
helped up. He don't believe in any of us — except per- 
haps, after a fashion, in Circus Fan.” 

Stanhope made no reply; he scarcely seemed to have 
heard him, but sat with his eyes fixed upon an ink-spot 
on the table-cover near his elbow. 

"Well,” said Carnes testily, "if you're gone back to 
New Orleans already — ” 

"There’s something connected with my investigation — 
if you want to call them investigations — at the Victor, 
that has plagued me more than a little. I couldn't speak 
of it there and didn't want to — but I can't get my mind 
off it.” Stanhope spoke musingly, not heeding the com- 
ment of his friend. 

"What's that, Dick?” 

"When I began to look about the room where the body 
lay, about the first thing I did was to lift up the cloak 
— you know — " 

Carnes nodded. 


33 


491 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"As I told you it lay across a new-looking trunk, al- 
most covering it; well sir, when my eyes fell upon that 
Lrunk I almost jumped; it looked as natural, as familiar 
to me as the face of an old acquaintance; I almost 
caught myself saying ‘how d’ye do?’ You know one gets 
those notions sometimes and then they wear off, but my 
notion didn’t; every time I saw that trunk it was the 
same familiar puzzle. Pm sure Pve seen it somewhere 
— long before it appeared to me in New Orleans." 

Carnes laughed, "It’s a new thing for you to indulge 
in notions,- Dick. Now listen to something practical: 
Don’t you remember that you spent several weeks more 
than a year ago in spotting trunk-thieves? wasn’t that it? 

I remember that you discoursed very learnedly about the 
physiognomy of things, especially of trunks. Now don’t 
you think that this trunk in question may have come under 
your eye in the course of its travels, when you were espe- 
cially interested in trunks and consequently very observ- 
ant of their peculiaities? ” 

"Upon my word, Carnes, I hadn’t thought of that! A 
man can't think of everything; and you may be right. 
It is the most practical of explanations. I wonder if 
you would account for the other in the same way." 

"The other what?" 

"The other puzzling resemblance." 

"Another familiar-faced trunk?" 

"No, this was a man. I had just a glimpse of him in 
front of the Hotel Victor, the night of the inquest, a reg- 
ular-featured blonde, straight-stepping sort of a fellow; 
he only gave me a profile view, and got out of the way, 
but I felt just as I did about the trunk, sure that I had 
seen him before, without knowing where, confound him!"* 

"Well,” said Carnes, "Pve been wondering if we 
weren’t losing our cunning; everything looks like it. I 
thought never forgot a face, Dick." 


PUZZLING RESEMBLANCES 


495 


"I thought so too,” said Stanhope ruefully. Old man, 
we have been getting the worst of it ever since this War- 
ham puzzle first broke upon us.” 

“Well,” said Carnes, with a gleam of amusement 
breaking over his face, "my mind is made up — if my 
luck don^t change soon^ I shall take to — preaching.” 

“You'd better turn highwayman,” advised Stanhope 
“It’s fully as lucrative, and you’ll keep your reputation 
longer.” 

“True, but you forget there’s Sharp & Company. ' 


9 


CHAPTER LV 


A STARTLING SCIENTIFIC TRUTH 

Stanhope went back to New Orleans, and for nearly 
two months Carnes heard nothing from him that could 
be called news, and the same might be said with the 
pos^itions reversed; Carnes had little or no news to im- 
part to Stanhope. 

Then one day there came a ripple upon the surface of 
this calm in the shape of a letter — it was from Stan- 
hope and read as follows: 

"Dear Old Man: — At last our sails are ruffled by a 
slight — very slight breeze. Don’t begin to glow, it’s only 
a clue after all; and this is the story, much or little: 

"It seems that young Baring — I think I wrote you that 
he had set out for home, before I came back here — had 
laid out a sort of line of march, and fixed upon several 
points which he thought might for one reason or another 
prove especially worthy of attention. Well, we found 
that the mistress of a certain pretty cottage, in a se- 
cluded section, which I will name to you with other 
details when we meet, left her cottage on the eve of Mar- 
di gras. This woman, an octoroon somewhat notorious 
among her kind, had, it appears, taken lodgers into her 
house, a man and a woman, and these also disappeared 
on Mardi gras eve^ Six weeks of patient ferreting have de- 
veloped these facts: The man was blonde, bewhiskered, 
well-dressed and carried himself like a gentleman. 
The woman was scarcely seen outside of the cottage, 

496 


A STAkTUNG SCIENTIFIC TRUTH 


497 


and never except when veiled; she was graceful and ap- 
peared languid, like an invalid, when she walked, two 
or three times, in the little rear-garden, or passed out to 
her carriage; they drove almost daily; she was always 
veiled, he openly unconcerned. Perhaps you will recall 
the fact that this tallies exactly witli Jones’ descrip- 
tion of the ‘missing,’ and her escort —the one which 
called me from Omaha. 

"Madame Dauphine, that is what the owner of the 
cottage calls herself, se?it away her only servant the day 
before these strangers arrived, which was more than 
two weeks before the carnival. Now note this: On the 
evening after they came — I have dates for these facts — a 
good looking, blonde, bewhiskered man bought, on Com- 
mon Street at No. — , a hypoder77iic syringe. 

"Mark again: On Alardi gras didiy,x\o\. two hours after the 
discovering of the body at the Victor, a boy found, near 
the foot of Canal street, a leather case containing a hypo- 
dcnnic syringe which he concealed, and thought no more 
of, except as an object of barter — when the festivities 
should be over. He did not even know the name or use 
of the instrument until he tried to dispose of it; but it 
was identified as the one sold to the blonde, bewhiskered 
man, by the parties on Common Street. Later, on the 
same day, a key was found on the Levee; it was the 
key to room gg, of the Hotel Victor. 

"I thought it would be well to look up the driver of the 
carriage which waited every day at the door of Madame 
Dauphine’ s cottage, and with this result: B — & B— , 
who keep a sale stable, sold, on the very day that the hy- 
podermic instrument was bought^ a pair of bay horses and a 
carriage to a man who represented himself as wishing to 
setup a hack upon his own private account; the descrip- 
lion of the outfit tallies with that of the turn-out used by 
Madame Dauphine’s tenants. This carriage, and the horses, 


498 


A SLENDER CLUE 


were found after the carnival’s close, wandering out on the 
lowlands without a driver. Up to date this driver is still 
missing, and Madame Dauphine’s house stands locked 
and tenantless — her whereabouts also unknown. 

“There, you have the business up to date, and now 
comes the tug of war — to find thehackman, Madam Dau- 
phine and the blonde bewhiskered man. 

“On the whole I think I won't turn highwayman — not 
yet. Yours on the trail, Dick." 

This letter found Carnes locked in a calm which was 
almost beyond endurance, but three weeks later he too had 
something to sa}'', and he wrote in his characteristic way 
to Stanhope: 

“My Dear Boy: If you love me, set a guard 
upon the empty shell of Madame Dauphine, and 
come to my aid. With my usual luck I find myself 
suddenly unable to hold my hand; with all my boasted 
wisdom and finesse I can’t contrive to be in two places 
at once, or to keep one eye upon opposite points of the 
compass. Larsen is improving so rapidly that I am mo- 
mentarily expecting a call from the superintendent, and 
it’s none too soon. If that fellow ‘Jinkins’ don’t swing, it 
will be because of some grand and loftly feats on our 
part. His trial must come off at the next term or a new 
cause for delay must be furnished. You will have to 
come if they call the trial, and you may as well come 
now when I so need your help. You can be back in New 
Orleans in a week or two if my plan succeeds. I have 
found out at last who the fellow is, and I will know be- 
fore you can arrive where to find his only remaining rel- 
ative, who is monstrously rich, it is said. Wire me if 
you can come. I reserve all explanations until I see you. 

“Yours in a tight box, Carnes." 


A STARTLING SCIENTIFIC TRUTH 4130 

Within the week which followed the receipt of this 
letter, Rufus Carnes closed the door of his room one day 
and walked down the corridor toward the stairway, 
wearing the look of an active, impulsive man, who finds 
his energies palsied and his ambitions baffled. As he was 
turning a sharp angle, a second man, coming toward 
him and looking even a shade more anxious than himself, 
stopped suddenly and uttered a quick ejaculation, breath- 
ing forth at almost the same breath a relieved sigh. 

"Carnes — old man! ” 

"Why, Dick!" 

With a quick. hand-clasp followed by complete silence, 
they walked back to the door which Carnes had so lately 
closed, and which he now opened with reviving eager- 
ness. When they w'ere within the room each scanned the 
other’s face, then — 

"What has happened, Dick?” exclaimed one, and — 

"Anything gone wrong, Carnes?” 'asked the other, both 
in the same breath. 

Then Stanhope sat down, looked at his friend and 
heaved a long sigh. 

"I wish I were a woman," he said; "Pd have hysterics 
in rainbow tints. Pheuw!” 

"Why, what’s up, Dick?” Carnes had already half-for- 
gotten his own anxiety, in solicitude for his friend. 

"Sit down,” said Stanhope. "Pll tell you in a minute. 
Pm fagged.” 

He looked it; he was pale, almost haggard; his eyes, 
usually so calmly searching, were full of trouble and 
anxiety; he was travel-stained and languid, as if almost 
overcome by fatigue or severe mental strain. 

Carnes sat down opposite him, gravely scanning his 
face. 

"Take your time, Dick,” he said; "you do look done 
up. Have some wine?” 


500 


A SLENDER CLUB 


"No,” said Stanhope with a quick negative gesture. 
"Not now; let’s get the talk over at once — Pm too full 
to keep it back any longer. Phuew! Pve not slept since 
I left New Orleans, and not more than half eaten; look 
at me — and then to cap the climax I must meet with an 
adventure almost at your door. Carnes — how is John 
Warham?” 

"A week ago,” said Carnes, not without some surprise, 
"he was very low indeed.” 

Stanhope drew out his handkerchief and passed it 
across his brow. 

"Poor man!” he sighed. "Poor old man!” 

"Dick!” cried Carnes, "for heaven’s what ails 

you?” 

"You remember young Baring?” queried Stanhope, set- 
tling himself to tell his story, and then as Carnes 
nodded, "I told you about him and his microscopical 
society, didn’t I?” . 

Carnes nodded again. 

"And I told you about his twenty-nine varieties of 
blonde hair?” 

Carnes nodded and grinned. 

"Well, when I went back, you may remember that Ba- 
ring was gone; he had been called home on account of 
the illness of his father, and he went, at a moment’s 
notice of course, while Garland was out of town. Well, 
Baring came back last week, and the first thing he did 
was to ask for an interview with Garland; we happened 
to be sitting together when he came. Well, when they 
came back they both looked serious, and Garland took 
upon himself the task of telling me that he feared there 
had been a great mistake. Talk about being haunted! 
by Jove! a ghost would be welcome in exchange for my 
present prospect. Old man, we have not done with Bertha 
Warham yet !" 


.4 STARTLING SCIENTIFIC TRUTH 


501 


"We haven’t done with her murderer." 

"Her murderer — bah! we don’t even know if she has 
been murdered. There! don’t open your mouth; let 
me get it over! It seems that Baring, in the pursuit of 
knowledge, put his blonde hairs from the head of that 
dead girl, under his confounded microscope, and subject- 
ed them to other tests; if you want scientific particu- 
lars I recommend you to Baring, or Garland; the naked 
result was too much for fne! Carnes, Bertha Warham, 
acording to all her friends and relatives, was a natural 
blonde, a dark-eyed fair-haired girl. This hair, which 
without a doubt came from the head of the murdered 
girl, had bee7i dyed!" 

"What!” 

"It was black hair artificially made yellow." 

He waited for his effect — but Carnes sat staring mutely. 

"It naturally follows," went on Stanhope, "that I’ve 
got to do this thing over again. If that dead woman 
was not Bertha Warham — ” 

"Dick!" broke in Carnes, "you won’t bungle this busi 
ness again, will you? If there’s a shadow of doubt in 
your mind, you know what must be done.” 

"/ don’t doubt. I have every confidence in the verdict 
of Garland and Baring. Garland verifies the analysis. 
But, all the same. I’m bound to make assurance doubly 
sure. Yes,” rising and beginning to stride up and down 
the room, "I’ve got to go to Upton Cemetery." 

"And you’ve got to take two good men with you — men 
who know their business.” 

"No; I only need one.” 

"Nonsense!” 

"Not at all; Baring came North with me. He will be 
here to morrow morning if I need him. I shall take Ba* 
ring — but that isn’t all." 

"All of what?" 


502 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"A few moments ago, about two blocks from your door 
I met that girl, Rose Hildreth.” 

"Hildreth? Oh yes. The friend of Miss Warham— the 
girl of the letters.” 

"The same; she has not improved since I saw her last; 
there is nothing about her now to distinguish her from 
the worst of her sort; she stopped me — " 

"UmphI of course.” 

"She stopped me to tell me where to look for Bertha 
Warham. ” 

Carnes was mute again. 

"She has just come back from New York, so she says, 
and she declared that she saw Bertha Warham in that 
city — last week." 

"Whew!" 

"She says that she followed her, and saw her alight 
from a carriage at the door of a mansion where she rang 
and was admitted, and the carriage drove away. The 
girl is persistent in her belief that it was Bertha War- 
ham; she says that she met her face to face, that Bertha 
came out of a store, passed her, and got into the car- 
riage; she. Rose, followed her in a cab. Rose declares 
that she recognized her at a glance, although her hair had 
turned black. ” 

"Oh!” 

"So you see I have more than one thing to do. First 
Upton, then the Metropolis." 

"Turned black did you say?” 

"That^s what I said, and what Rose said." 

"Did she tell you where this girl, this Bertha War- 
ham with black hair, stopped?” 

"Yes, she named the place, and I took it down. It^s 
a swell locality.” 

"Dick,” said Carnes, after a moment's reflection, "you 
must go at once to New York.” 


/f STARTLING SCIENTIFIC TRUTH 


503 


"Upton first. ” 

"Wait — you might leave Upton to me, I suppose; the 
fact is you can kill two birds by going to New York now. 
It was for this I sent for you." 

''You wanted me to go to New York?” 

"Yes. In the interest of Charlie Jinkins. Couldn’t 
you start to-night?” 

"But there’s Baring — we were to meet here. Of course 
I can trust Upton to you. But why — ?” 

"Dick, the time has come to bring our guns upon Lar- 
sen ; he’s almost himself again. I'll receive your friend 
Baring. I’ll take him with me to Upton. Will you gof" 

"Yes. Will you tell me what I am to do for you 
when I get there?" 

"Nothing that will interfere with your own plans. 
You are simply to call upon Charlie Jinkins’ last sur- 
viving relative, and state his case; we want help, finan- 
cial and otherwise." 

"And if they won’t give it?” 

"You must put it strong. The relative is a step-sister, 
rich and proud. If she refuses her help, tell her, with 
ray compliments, that the man who calls himself ‘Jin- 
kins’ for the sake of his friends, shall come to trial and 
be hanged under the family name that she is so proud of.” 

"Well,old man! You’re getting warm.” 

"Warm, anybody would be warm. Why, Dick, think 
of that poor boy — a drunkard, buffeted, friendless, keep- 
ing his counsel and letting himself go quietly to destruc- 
tion, rather than call upon his proud step-sister, who 
had turned her back upon him, or bring a stain upon 
the old name that he had given up. There’s that much 
blue blood left in him. See if she is willing to let such 
a Jernyngham be hanged as common Jinkins.”’ 

"Jernyngham! Jinkins?” 

"Sit down again, Dick. I’ll tell you all about it." 


CHAPTER LVI 


A NEW CAMPAIGN 

“You see,” began Carnes, “this Jinkins, after all, is 
not a tramp of the common sort. There’s good blood in 
the fellow; and, when the whisky got out of him, it 
sort of asserted itself. We called it pure obstinacy 
at first ; I suppose Sharp and his men think and call it 
pure obstinacy, or worse; now, as for me, Pve changed 
my mind Naturally, Sharp & Co. have concluded 
that the fellow’s past was not to his credit; that there 
was nothing in it of a redeeming quality; nothing 
that would turn the heart of the jury-box in his direc- 
tion. Well, I thought so too; it was the most natural 
conclusion — taking it all in all.” 

“I should think so! " ventured Stanhope. 

“You should ! well, see now what blunders we make 
when we are led into conclusions by studying the ‘physi- 
ognomy of things.’ We might be floundering in the 
dark yet if it hadn’t been for Circus Fan. That woman 
is anything but a fool, let me tell you; and she is the 
only human being that this chap looks upon as a friend. 
All the rest, the lawyer who has undertaken his defense, 
the minister, a good zealous soul, that I turned loose 
upon him, myself, in the guise of a venerable philan- 
thropist, he views with an indifference which would be 
skeptical if it were not so stolid and despairing. But 
Fan, after plying all her arts, could get nothing from him 
except a vague idea, which she based upon some words 
which he used while he was in the fever. It was hardly 

504 


A NEIV CAMPAIGN 


505 


a hint, but she worked from that until she became discour- 
aged. When Fan finally gave up, a bright idea struck me ; 
it was a good while in coming, but when it came I put 
it into execution; I applied to the parson and told him, 
under the seal of secrecy of course, as much of the story 
as was needful to make him understand the situation. 
The reverend gentleman is a man of tact, and when 
he set out to visit our obstinate martyr. Fan and I felt 
quite hopeful. 

“Well, sir, that good man went day after day; he took 
a genuine interest in the fellow, and I think he won 
upon him a little, but, after nearly two weeks of daily 
effort, he came to me and told me that he could do 
nothing with him; ‘but,’ said he, ‘I have found out this 
much: some time in his life the poor boy has had a 
leaning toward the Episcopal church. I think that, if 
Jinkins were really face to face with his fate, believed 
himself dying in fact, or doomed, he would confide in an 
Episcopal clergyman — if he has anything to confide — 
but it would be a sacred confidence, a last confession of 
a dying man.’ Then I caught at another idea, and Fan 
and I went into council again. I called on our lawyer 
and enlisted him too. It was lucky for our plans that 
Circus Fan is a clever actress, and not oversentimental, 
and that the lawyer was a lawyer. For the week that fol- 
lowed— we thought it best to give him a week of prep- 
aration— was full of heartless work. Circus Fan aban- 
doned her cheerful tactics, and let him see plainly that 
she had given up all hope for him. His trial would 
come off without doubt at the next term and there was 
absolutely no defense, not even an alibi; she cried, as if 
he were already hanging in the jail-yard, called him a 
poor martyr, and asked him where he would wish to be 
buried, provided his body could be bought or stolen 
from the jail officials. All the week she rung the changes 


506 


A SLENDER CLUE 


upon these themes; and sometimes, for variation, she 
pictured the consternation of his murderers when it came 
out — as it would she predicted, when he was dead and 
past saving — that they had hanged an innocent man. 
Leave a woman alone to pile up the agony! Fan did it. 
She tortured that poor fellow, but she never overdid it. 
The lawyer of course took a different cue; he was neither 
sentimental nor sympathetic; either would have been 
out of his line, but he was grum and crusty, like a man 
who has been inveigled into defending a hopeless case. 
He openly declared it hopel-ess, and told Charlie that 
he was as good as hanged, and that he might thank 
himself for it, asked him if he had any farewell requests 
to make, and suggested that a sketch of his life, confided 
to the chaplain or to himself, and only to be opened 
after his death, might put him, or his ghost, in a better 
light before the public. In short he was as sardonic 
and diabolical in his method of torture as Fan had been 
in hers, and by the end of the week our man was in a fit 
state of mind for the last act. 

“I don’t mind admitting to you, Dick, that I was a lit- 
tle puzzled; I didn’t know how to begin. I had decided 
to play clergyman myself, and I didn’t want to disgrace 
the cloth; when I came to run over in my mind what I 
knew about the Episcopal faith, I found that I needed 
coaching — a great deal of it too. I actually spent that 
entire week posting myself for my part, with the help 
of my friend the dominie, the lawyer, whose wife hap- 
pened to be an Episcopalian; and even Circus Fan, she 
knew more about the ‘Established church’ than I did, 
by considerable. 

"When I was schooled and groomed for my part, I wasn’t 
such a bad-looking rector — one of the benign, fatherly, 
aproachable sort, you know. But 1 tell you, Dick Stan- 
hope, I’d rather run down the most dangerous assassin 


A NEW CAMPAIGN 


507 


^that ever escaped justice, fight him hand to hand, yes, 
and let him cut my throat and make his escape, than go 
through with that interview again. Pm not going to 
tell you all about it. I couldrP t. How I ever got through 
with it I don^t know now. I didn’t put any profane 
levity into my part, and I don’t believe that a born, bred 
and ordained minister could have prayed a more honest 
prayer, for the man’s life was at stake, and I felt my 
responsibility; I had a notion that there was a sort of 
secret understanding between the Most High and my 
rascally self, and hoped He’d see that I meant well, if 
1 didn’t mean just what I said. At any rate my prayer 
was answered — in part — and — you should have heard me 
sing a hymn! No — I don’t mean that; I could not have 
carried it out if I had had even Circus Fan for an audi- 
ence. " 

“But you can sing a hymn, Carnes. I’ve heard you. 
I can imagine the fervor of it.” Stanhope’s tone was 
perfectly grave and sincere. He was thinking of the 
motive for this clerical masquerade, not of its absurdity. 

“Well at any rate it was a success. He told me a 
little; enough for his purpose, and for mine. It wasn’t 
a maudlin, tearful story; he didn’t seem to demand or 
expect sympathy. He has been a prodigal son, he has 
spent his substance like the original prodigal, and he 
endures his husks with better philosophy; takes them 
as a matter of course. He has made me lose all my 
respect, for that old Bible prodigal who carried his 
empty stomach home to his father when the husks began 
to lose their flavor. Charlie Jinkins is a prodigal with 
modern improvements. He didn’t show the white 
feather. He just told his story simply, and with praise- 
worthy reserve. His real name is Carl Jernyngham. 
His mother, it seems, was a mere girl when she married 
one of the rich Philadelphia Jernynghams; she was 


508 


A SLENDER CLUE 


thrown from her carriage and died of her hurts when he 
was two years old. Within the year his father married 
again; the second wife was a rich woman, and she never 
had much love for her step-son; she had but one child, a 
daughter, and the daughter inherited her mother’s pride: 
and antipathies; the father was immersed in business,, 
and the boy grew up in a luxurious home but literally 
without a friend; his father made him a generous allow- 
ance, sent him to school, and took very little notice of 
him beyond this; he was an idle boy with an unattract- 
ive home and money enough to bring about him all 
manner of tempters; naturally he went to the dogs. His 
step-mother died, and his young step-sister became more 
arrogant than ever, and when he learned that his father 
was about to bring home a third wife, a haughty young 
woman of society, he left the home-roof for good. Soon 
after he came into possession of his mother’s fortune, 
which was small in comparison with his step-sister’s, but 
still considerable. Then his downward course began in 
earnest. He gambled, drank, and frequented the low- 
est resorts of pleasure. He was good-tempered, easily 
influenced, liberal; and his money dwindled rapidly. 
When he was in a fair way to become a conspicuous 
disgrace to his family his father made a feeble effort to 
reclaim him, and failing in this, formally disinherited 
him. Two years afterward the prodigal learned inci- 
dentally, through a newspaper, of his father’s death — 
he wrote to his step-sister then, and she replied, sending 
him a check for a thousand dollars, and advising him to 
emigrate and reform. Another year passed, his money 
was gone, he fell sick and got into no end of trouble, 
but he’weathered through until a little less than a year 
ago, when being sick and more forlorn than usual he 
wrote again to his half-sister. After some weeks of 
waiting she wrote him guardedly, without name or ad- 


A NEJV CAMPAIGN 


509 


dress, and only signing her initials; she told him that 
she was about to be married to a man of aristocratic 
birth who would discard her at once if he knew that she 
was burdened with a relative so disreputable; her future 
happiness was bound up in this splendid fiarice. For 
her own sake she must disown him, must refuse to assist 
him further. If he persisted in writing to her, he 
would simply spoil her whole life. She would send him 
once more a little money, but under no circumstances 
must he write her again — under no circumstances. She 
threw herself upon his mercy; he must remember that 
after her marriage she could not receive a letter from him. 
She must be dead to him, and he to her. If he persisted 
in applying to her for aid, it would be useless; in her 
own defense she must ignore him; he would only wreck 
her life without benefiting himself. She was writing to 
him, helping him, for the last tune." 

“Good heavens!” broke in Stanhope. “And that is 
the woman you wish me to interview! Upon my word I 
don’t know what to think of you.” 

“If you’ll hold your tongue,” cried Carnes, “until I 
have told my story out. I’ll you talk.” 

“Go on, then.” 

“The fellow told me all this quite calmly, not trying 
to conceal his own faults, and touching very lightly 
upon the unnatural conduct of this female aristocrat, 
never uttering one word of censure; and then he asked 
me to inform her, when all was over, of his death, 
if I could do so without letting her know how and for 
what crime he died — simply inform her, in my capac- 
ity of chaplain, that he was dead, and that he died har- 
boring no unkind thoughts of her. Think of that, will 
you! No, sir, I don’t want you to go to her; I want to go 
myself. I want to see her face when she hears the 
truth. It would be a study in blue-blood worth travel- 

34 


510 


A SLENDER CLUE 


ing around the world for. It isn't often that I hanker 
for female society, but I do want half an hour face to 
face with that woman, with the privilege of talking to 
her straight out of my heart. But it can't be; you 
must go, Dick. She must be made to come forward 
with her money and her influence — it wouldn’t count 
mucii without the money.” 

‘‘And the aristocratic husband?” 

‘‘Never mind him. Must a man be hanged to save his 
nerves? Jinkins knows his name and that they have left 
Philadelphia, and are living in New York,” 

‘‘Well, you had better give me the name, and I’ll tele- 
graph ahead and have them looked up; if they are swell 
people they won’t be bard to find, but time is valuable.” 

‘‘That’s so. Jinkins saw the notice of their removal 
to New York in the society column of an old newspaper. 
I guess you’ll find them swell enough. You will want 
to see the woman first, won’t you?” 

‘‘I suppose so.” Stanhope rubbed his chin thought- 
fully and for a moment they were both silent, then 
Carnes said abruptl}^: 

‘‘Do you believe that girl Hildreth’s story, about fol- 
lowing this supposed Bertha Warham in a cab?” 

‘‘Well, I don’t feel especially skeptical about the cab. 
‘‘From what I saw of the little Hildreth I don’t think 
she would care to have a personal encounter with her 
old-time friend, supposing her to be living, and that 
they did really meet. But she is full of curiosity, and 
that kind of boldness that would not hesitate to jump 
into a cab and play the spy. And she would take a sort 
of pleasure in finding out a thing that would place the 
woman who had cut her acquaintance in an unpleasant 
position. She thinks that the girl has gotten into snug 
quarters, under some incognito, and that if we find her 
it will spoil her plans. Don’t you see?” 


A NEIV CAMPAIGN 


511 


“What do you think about it?” 

“Think! I decline to think! What could I think? 
But this I tell you: if I' have any reason for thinking 
that Bertha Warham is alive and in New York, Pm going 
to have someone who knew her well, brought face to face 
with her. -Pve done with identification by photograph.” 

“There is one person,” said Carnes slowly, “who would 
not fail to know her, I think, under any mask.” 

“Who?” 

"Larsen.” 


CHAPTER LVII 


MRS. E. PERCY JERMYN 

It was a rare spring day, when Stanhope, armed with 
the address of Mrs. E. Percy Jermyn, set out upon a 
tour of inspection. 

It was on just such a day as fair ladies choose for the 
display of early spring toilets, upon the fashionable up-* 
town streets, and in Central Park; and gorgeous equi- 
pages were already thick upon the street down which 
the young detective paced, for he had already reached 
that magical precinct, “Up Town.” 

As he was nearing a row of stately houses, built upon 
the side of the street which lay in the fullest glare of 
the spring sunshine, he slackened his pace a little, and 
referred to the small memorandum-book which he took 
from a convenient pocket, and in which the address of 
Mrs. E. Percy Jermyn had been penciled only that morn- 
ing. 

“IPs on the other side,” he muttered, restoring the 
memorandum book to his pocket. “I thought it was 
there,” and he crossed the street, and walked through 
the sunshine toward the stately row. 

A carriage was standing at the curb-stone before the 
last house in the row, and Stanhope, having reached the 
first one, looked up at the door and said to himself: 

“It's that last house,” and then as he came nearer, 
“if thaf s my lady's carriage she rides in state, and 
keeps good horses.” 

He was quite as willing to be seen, as he was anxious 
• 512 


MRS. E. PERCY JERMYN 


513 


to see, and so there were no traces of the good-looking, 
well-dressed young man that he naturally was; he was 
carelessly and somewhat shabbily clad and he carried 
,under his arm a package, which though not large 
enough, nor heavy enough, to be burdensome, or too 
obtrusive, was still sufficiently conspicuous, together 
with his air and general appearance, to mark him at 
once as a conscientious, and not too positive “runner of 
errands” — one of those amiable and imperturbable creat- 
ures who, under no pressure of circumstances, are ever 
beguiled into running, while traversing the streets in 
their professional capacity. 

Thus equipped he could loiter and scan the number of 
the houses without exciting comment or notice — and 
he was very much at his leisure when he sauntered past 
the stately row, stopping on the way to stare at a pass- 
ing carriage, to drop his bundle and pick it up again, 
and to peer up at the numbers over the doors, shading 
his eyes with his hand, and seeming to make out the 
figures with difficulty. 

He had made so slow a progress that he was yet two 
doors away from the house before which the carriage 
stood, when the heavy portal swung open, and a lady 
came out and down the steps, crossing the pavement 
toward the carriage. 

Stanhope quickened his speed, boldly intent upon 
catching a glimpse of the lady^s face; and he succeeded 
fully,, for as he came opposite the carriage wherein she 
was already seated, she turned her face toward him and 
bent forward to speak to her coachman. 

Then suddenly Stanhope’s hand took a tighter grip 
upon the package which he carried ; his shoulders be- 
came erect, his look alert and full of startled eagerness. 

That face was the face of Bertha Warham! 

For a moment, he stood staring after the now mov- 


514 


A SLENDER CLUE 


ing carriage, then his look changed, his shoulders 
drooped again, he was the runner of errands once more; 
like a flash a thought had crossed his mind bringing 
with it relief. 

He had not thought of it, in writing down the address 
of Mrs. E. Percy Jermyn, or he had only thought it a 
coincidence, that the house to which Rose Hildreth had 
traced Bertha Warham, and the house of “Charlie Jin- 
kins’” half-sister should be upon the same street; but 
as he moved on he drew from his pocket the memoran- 
dum-book and turning back a page found the number 
given him by Rose Hildreth. Yes, they were the same; 
Bertha Warham and Mrs. E. Percy Jermyn were under 
one roof! He need not follow that receding carriage. 
He could go home, think over this strange complica- 
tion and prepare for action. 

Within the hour his decision was made: If Bertha 
Warham was under Mrs. Jerm3m’s roof surely Fate was 
beginning to play into his hands. He had a pretext and 
a good one for going once, twice, oftener perhaps to this 
house, and it would be strange if he could not contrive 
to see this girl again, to convince himself that she was 
or was not Bertha Warham! 

When he again set out, Richard Stanhope was a 
pleasing figure. His lithe form was set off by garments 
that were perfect in fit and fashion. He had made no 
effort to disguise himself, only to look his best, and that 
he did. Richard Stanhope in propria persona, attired for 
a morning call upon a lady, was a figure to grace a 
drawing-room. Handsome, erect, a man to win friends 
and inspire confidence. He did not look like one bent 
upon a grave errand; his fine mouth wore a half-smile 
beneath his short, thick, dark, mustache; his clear, 
handsome brown eyes looked out upon the world with 
that fearless frank, good-humored, indifferent gaze, that 


MRS. E. PERCY JERMYN 


515 


never fails of its impression, especially upon a woman 
who admired strength and beauty in a man. 

Perhaps Rufus Carnes, older and bearing upon his 
face more of time’s battle-scars, was wiser than he 
seemed in sending, as ambassador to a proud woman, 
this good-looking, clear-headed, self-controlled young 
fellow, with his iron will and his tact and cleverness. 

Even the splendid footman, who opened the door to 
him, failing to impress the caller with a sense of his 
liveried magnificence, was himself impressed, and bore 
away, together with the card upon his salver, a convic- 
tion that he had done himself honor in receiving with his 
best deportment the message of an American aristocrat. 

Stanhope had chosen for his call the hour at which 
most male New Yorkers are “down town. ” He trusted that 
Mr. Jermyn would not disappoint his expectations by 
being at home, and sent up his card boldly, with a few 
words penciled underneath his name, to Mrs. Jermyn. 

In a few moments the servant returned; Mrs. Jermyn 
would receive her caller in the drawing-room; would 
the gentleman follow him? 

The gentleman was very willing, and was ushered out 
of the little reception room, across a broad hall, and into 
a drawing room^ all crimson and white and gold. 

He swept the room with one swift glance, but it was 
empty, and without a word the tall footman bowed and 
retired. 

Five minutes passed while Stanhope stood gazing 
about the beautiful room with careless, half-interested 
eyes, then a heavy curtain, at the end of the room di- 
rectly opposite him, was swept aside, and he saw, first 
a white, jeweled hand, and then a graceful figure, with 
head half-averted, gliding under the arch. 

Mrs. Jermyn of course; he started toward her, and 
then as she came out into the clear light from the great 


516 


A SLENDER CLUE 


double windows, he stopped, and for one instant almost 
betrayed the surprise he felt. 

Again it was that face — the face of Bertha Warham. 

She came forward quickly and with a look of interest- 
ed expectation. 

“You will pardon my delay, I hope," she began in a 
sweet, clear, well-modulated voice, and he saw at the 
moment that she held his card in her hand. “I was 
obliged to keep you waiting — 1 have just come in from 
a drive.” 

He bowed, and she favored him with one sweeping 
glance from her clear dark eyes. Then she came a step 
nearer, looking him straight in the face. 

“Your card, Mr. Stanhope, was very welcome to me — 
it says you have brought a message from — from my 
brother; ” 

A thousand strange thoughts flitted through Stan- 
hope’s brain as he stood face to face with the woman 
who looked so strangely, so marvelously like Bertha 
Warham. After all, was it only a wonderful resem- 
blance? was Bertha Warham dead? and was this really 
Mrs. E. Percy Jermyn? 

But there was no trace of his mental uncertainty in 
his face as he bowed and asked: 

“Are you then Mrs. Jermyn?” 

“Surely,” she glanced down at the card and then up at 
his face, and there was a little accent of surprise in her 
voice. “I am trying to remember if I have met you be- 
fore, Mr. Stanhope — the name somehow has a familiar 
sound.” 

“If we had met before J should not have forgotten it, 
madame. My name is not an uncommon one.” 

“It is not common,” she said, and then moved toward 
a seat. Her manner was calm and dignified, yet very 
pleasing; as he crossed the floor a sudden thought struck 


MRS. E. PERCY JERMYN 


517 


him: Bertha Warham had blonde hair, they said, and 
this vvoman^s hair was black! Then he remembered that 
he had never seen the blonde hair; he had seen only the 
photograph, and that, a monochrome with its lights and 
shades that had only heightened the resemblance, had 
misled him; if he could see the golden hair beside the 
black, would that resemblance be so great? He wanted 
to take the photograph from his pocket and compare it 
with the face before him, and then he thought of Baring’s 
strange discovery of the black hair that had been turned 
to golden — of the body buried in the Upton cemetery 
with “Bertha Warham, aged twenty years,” upon the 
coffin -plate, of Carnes and his ghastly mission. What 
did it all mean? How would it all end? 

Mrs. Jermyn was speaking. 

“Will you sit here, sir?" she indicated by a gesture 
an easy-chair near her own. 

“If you have seen my brother I shall want to detain 
you — to ask a great many questions. His message — ” 

Stanhope bowed and took the seat she had pointed out, 
moving it a very little to give him a better view of her 
face. 

“It is not a message that I have for you,” he said 
gravely. “It is news — information.” 

“Not bad news, Mr. Stanhope?” she spoke quickly, 
and there was an anxious ring in her low voice. 

“It is not good, Mrs. Jermyn. Your brother is in se- 
rious trouble.” 

Having made this announcement he paused, and for a 
moment the two regarded each other silently. 

Her face was full of apprehension, as was but natural; 
her eyes looked straight into his own, while he — he 
looked the respectful and regretful bearer of ill news, 
and nothing more. 

“She takes it naturally!” he thought; “she’s a sincere 


518 


A SLENDER CLUE 


woman, or a very clever actress — I wish I knew which!' 

And she — of what was she thinking? 

“Mr. Stanhope,” she leaned toward him and half-ex- 
tended her hand, “what is it? — tell me — tell me. the 
worst at once.” Her voice was slightly tremulous; she 
kept her eyes fixed upon his face. 

“Your brother is in prison, Mrs. Jermyn. There is a 
serious charge against him. He needs powerful friends 
or his life may be sacrificed." 

Her hands came together in her lap, and clasped and 
unclasped themselves there. 

“Explain," she whispered; “where is he? what is this 
charge? Tell me all about it as quickly as possible; we 
may be interrupted!” She had grown very pale; she still 
leaned toward him, and, throughout the recital, kept 
her glowing eyes fixed upon his face. 

“I am going to begin by telling you how I became in- 
terested in your brother,” began Stanhope. “I am a person 
of more or less leisure, and of an inquiring turn of mind. 
Some time. ago I formed the acquaintance of a detective 
several years older than myself, and we became firm 
friends. It is through him that I became acquainted with 
your brother’s condition, and at his request, that I came 
to you. I have with me the accounts of the story given 
by the newspapers; you can read them at your leisure. 
What I am about to tell you is not known except to my 
friend the detective, your brother, and myself;” and 
he told the story of Charlie Jinkins. He did not tell the 
story as Carnes had told it to him, but more graphically 
and with more pathos. He began at the beginning, or at 
the point where “Charlie Jinkins” first appeared to Cir- 
cus Fan, and uniting the fragments that Carnes had 
gathered together, he wove them into a simpler, more 
connected story. He described the scene in the cell 
when Jinkins made his dying confession and request, 


MRS. E. PERCY JERMYN 


519 


to the supposed clergyman, graphically, like one who has 
seen what he relates, and his delicacy in handling that 
part of J inkins’ story which touched upon his letters to 
his step-sister, and her repulse, was a master stroke. It 
spared her pride, her amour propre. And throughout the 
recital he did not speak the name of the woman for 
whose murder an innocent man might be called upon to 
suffer, nor name either Rufus Carnes or “Charlie Jinkins. ” 

When he paused, she withdrew her eyes from his face, 
unlocked her white hands, that in spite of their little- 
ness looked so strong and full of character, and rising 
from her chair, began to pace the length of the room. 

“I don’t know what to do!” she said as she turned 
away. “I don’t know what to think!" 

As she moved away from him he had time to note tjhe 
splendid poise of her head, splendid even in that mo- 
ment of agitation; the lithe grace of her form and gait 
and the rich simplicity of her gown of olive, which har- 
monized so perfectly with the crimson and gold of her 
surroundings. Then as she turned and came toward 
him, he arose. 

“I do not expect you to act solely upon my suggestion, 
Mrs. Jermyn,” he said. “I ask you to telegraph to this 
detective, to the chief of police, to the lawyer who is 
defending this poor fellow. Convince yourself, then act. 
I have other business in the city; I shall remain here 
some days. If I can serve you I am at your disposal — ” 

A quick look of relief came over her face; she paused 
directly before him. 

“How much time is there?” she asked quickly. 

“Before his trial? It has been staved off on one pre- 
text and another, again and again. If we may hope for 
assistance from you I think the trial might be put off 
another month, perhaps two." 

“If!” she drew herself up to her fullest height, her 


520 


A SLENDER CLUE 

0 

eyes flashed into his. “You say if; do you think I will 
refuse my aid? — that I will let that poor boy die? Oh, I 
am not so heartless as you must think me! He shall be 
saved if money and skill can save him!” She, started and 
turned her face toward the door as if listening, then re- 
sumed speaking hurriedly: 

“You have proffered your assistance and I shall need 
it I fear. I must think of this and find a way. May I 
see you to-morrow — not here — I will explain my reasons 
— we must not discuss this matter here; can you give me 
an hour to-morrow morning?" 

“Yes." 

“Then — will you be in Central Park in the morning, 
say at eleven o’clock? I often walk there. I will leave 
my carriage near the Art Museum; it is not a show 
day and we can talk safely there — I mean without inter- 
ruption," And then bending toward him with that look 
of appeal that is doubly charming coming from a proud 
woman, she said: 

“You will not misunderstand me, sir? you will not 
think me indifferent to the fate of this poor boy if I ask 
you to excuse me for to-day — to consider this meeting 
at an end? You — he shall have my help; I promise it! 
But I must act alone, or only with your aid." 

Again her eyes were fixed upon his face, and he met 
them with a frank smile. 

“I understand," he said; “I will not fail you, Mrs. 
Jermyn." 

“Thank you," she said fervently. “I was sure you 
would not; and I will not you," 

He drew from his pocket a little packet composed of 
slips cut from many newspapers, and neatly held to- 
gether with a rubber band. 

“This," he said, “is the story as it was told by the 
'newspapers; it is harsh and uncharitable, but when you 


MRS. E. PERCY JERMYN 


521 


have read it you will know all that is known by anyone, 
except the actual murderer, of this strange affair; until 
to-morrow then, Mrs. Jermyn." 

“What a splendid face,” she murmured when she was 
left alone in the drawing-room; “frank and manly and 
strong; I never saw a finer specimen of manhood.” 

And then, with a grave countenance, compressed lips 
and darkly glowing eyes, she went straight to her bou- 
doir, a marvel of glowing rose hue and creamy laces, 
and locked herself in. Then she crossed the room, and 
standing before a tall Queen Anne mirror, surveyed her- 
self critically, the gravity of her face deepening. Next, 
and with a long shuddering sigh she opened a drawer in 
an escretoire that stood in a niche built into the corner 
of the room, and taking from it a box of ebony and gilt, 
sat down beside a small table, placed the box upon 
it and opened it with a tiny key which she carried 
about her person; from this box she took, one after an- 
other, 'four or five small volumes, all bound with leather 
and closed with a clasp of gold; each clasp bearing the 
monogram “E. J.” 

From these volumes she selected one, after opening 
and glancing at several, and opened it at the fly-leaf 
which bore the inscription. 

“Ellen Jernyngham’s journal for i8 — . ” 

Meanwhile Stanhope, sorely puzzled, had returned to 
his hotel where he found a telegram awaiting him. 

He opened it with eager haste and read these words. 

“Investigation made. Baring’s testimony corroborated. 
Baring will be in N. Y. within the week. Look for him 
at the ‘Avenue Hotel’. Carnes. 

"Baring coming here! " muttered Stanhope. “What's 
bringing hitn here, I should like to know? 


CHAPTER LVIII 


A* STRANGE PROPOSAL 

They were so punctual at the appointed time and 
piace, the next morning, that Stanhope, turning into one 
of the broad walks that approached the New art building, 
saw Mrs. Jermyn alight from her carriage, a short dis- 
tance away. She saw him, and nodding slightly, came 
promptly toward him, with that easy grace which he 
had noted and admired in her at their previous inter- 
views. 

She did not glance about her, like one who fears ob- 
servation. She did not even order her coachman to drive 
on ; but she put out her hand, when they met within 
full sight of the carriage, and gave him a fleeting half- 
smile, by way of greeting. 

She was daintily clad, and her fine face, though a little 
pale, was serene and inscrutable. If she had passed the 
long hours of the night in thinking and planning, it 
must have been to some purpose; there was no trace of 
the hesitancy which had been manifest in her speech 
at their first meeting. She knew what she had come to 
say, and she said it, frankly, charmingly. 

“I am glad you are so prompt,” were her first words. 
'T have so much to say; and time seems so very precious 
just now; let us sit upon one of those seats yonder, 
Mr. Stanhope; but first I will tell my coachman to drive 
about. " 

She turned and made a sign to the coachman, who 
understood it and, tightening the reins in his hands, 

522 



WHEN THEY WERE SEATED, SHE TURNED UPON HIM THAT STRAIGHT- 
FORWARD GAZE.— Slender Clue, p. 523. 






A STRANGE PROPOSAL 


523 


drove slowly away, while Stanhope turned and walked 
beside her toward the place she had indicated, silent 
wondering, admiring. When they were seated she turned 
upon him that straightforward gaze , which seemed to 
fear nothing, and to have nothing to conceal; and cross- 
ing her hands in her lap, said: 

“Since I saw you yesterday, Mr. Stanhope, I have done 
little but think of my poor brother; I am not sure that 
I slept at all last night. There was so much to face. 

I am so peculiarly placed. But do rne the justice to be- 
lieve that it is not for my own sake that I have asked 
you to come out here to meet me. It is because I in- 
tend to save Carl Jernyngham if it can be done, and be- 
cause I find myself compelled to ask for your assistance, 
my only justification being your interest in the poor boy, 
already manifest.’’ 

Her eyes were searching his face, and she saw in it 
attentive interest, a little surprise, possibly a shade of 
admiration; and this was all that was visible; neverthe- 
less, behind this exterior was the sharp eye and the acute 
brain of the clever detective, who, master of himself 
and the situation, sees, weighs, judges, aided by an in- 
stinct that is almost genius. 

Stanhope had been thinking too, and he was now 
armed against surprise, at all points, he thought. 

“You have said that my brother told your friend, 
in his clerical character, that I broke off our inter- 
course, and why,” she resumed. “And if the reason ex- 
isted then, do you not see that it exists, and is even 
stronger now? I could not let the truth concerning my ' 
brother’s misdeeds come to the knowledge of Mr. Jer- 
myn then. He must not know it now. If the choice 
lay between us, if either Carl or I must be sacrificed, 

I think — I hope, I would have the courage to brave the 
worst. I am sure that I should. “But it would not be I 

35 


524 


A SLENDER CLUE 


alone who would suffer; it would not be our name — the 
name of Jernyngham — only, that would be dragged in the 
dust; it would be his name, of which he is so proud, I 
cannot bear that; I dare not let him hear of this disgrace, 
and' I must help Carl. I must go to him." 

"Go to him! " 

"Yes. There is no better way, no way so good. I have 
thought it all out, and it can be done — if you will help 
me.” 

She was speaking calml}^, but her face was very earn- 
est. Her hands, resting upon her lap, gripped each 
other firmly. 

"Tell me your plan, madam,” he said repectfully. 

"First, this trial must be again put off a month — two 
if possible.” 

"That can be managed, perhaps.” 

“Next — before I go further — will 3^ou answer a few per- 
sonal questions, Mr. Stanhope? you will see my motive 
soon. ” 

"Ask them.” 

"I want to know it you have a fixed home, parents, 
sisters and brothers.” 

"I have no fixed home, and if F have a relative in all 
this world I do not know it.” 

A new look — a mixture of relief and eagerness crossed 
her face; he. could almost fancy that his answer pleased 
her. 

"If, being here, just as 3'ou are, you should find it nec- 
essary, or expedient, to play a part, to assume a charac- 
ter other than your own, and to keep up this assumption 
for days, perhaps w^eeks, could you, tvould you do it, 
provided it was not an unpleasant role which you were 
asked to play, that it would occasion you no expense, 
and no trouble beyond the loss of your time, and would 
result in good to another?” 


A STRANGE PROPOSAL 


525 


"I don’t think I would find much difficulty, if 
the character were nat hard to assume, and if it seemed 
necessary -and right." 

"Now, let me cite you a case: suppose that, instead 
of being the man he is, and lying a prisoner in Chicago, 
my half-brother were a young man, like yourself for in- 
stance. Understand, my husband knows that I have a 
half-brother, who is a rover, a wanderer in unknown 
lands,, but he does not know what his past career has 
been. As I say, suppose that this half-brother, not as 
he is, but such as I could wish him to be, should come 
to my door to-day; do you not see that I could welcome 
him gladly, present him to my husband, and force him 
to accept the part of my fortune that should have been 
his — if I chose?” 

"Yes,” assented Stanhope, unable to guess at her 
meaning, “I can see how easy that might be.” 

"Suppose,” she went on, "that my brother came home 
like this. Suppose he came to-morrow, and that next 
week I, with the full and cordial consent of Mr. Jermyn, 
put into his hands a large sum of money. Suppose that 
then he should fancy paying a visit to Chicago — I have 
friends, old and dear {riends near that city — would it not 
be natural that 1 should accompany him? and could we 
not be in Chicago before this poor fellow, who calls him- 
self Charlie Jinkins, comes to trial?" 

She was leaning toward him, her cheeks aglow with 
suppressed excitement, her eyes searching his face. 

"I don’t understand you," he said. 

"Don’t you see how easy it would be?” she w^ent on 
eagerly. "Don’t you see that it would spare me? it might 
save him; it could not harm you/” 

"Do you mean — ” he began, then broke off suddenly. 

"Ah, you do understand! I was sure you would! oh, 
pardon me! it is the only way. And Carl 7nust be saved! 


526 


A SLENDER CLUE 


You will help me, will you not? you will play the part? 
You can do it, I am sure!” 

"Let me be sure that I understand you, madam. 
What is it tliat you wish me to do?*’ 

She arose and stood before, him, her eyes aglow, a 
scarlet flame in either cheek; she was no longer able to 
keep down the excitement that swayed her. 

"I want you to assume the name of Carl Jernyngham, ’’ 
she said. "I want you to come to my house and make 
your home there. I want you to receive this money and 
use it to save Carl. I want you to take me to him. It 
will not be difficult. Edward Percy Jermyn will not 
dare lift voice against you!" 

For a long moment he held her eye with his own. 
Then — "Will you. answer one question?" he asked, "and 
answer it frankly. " 

She was silent a moment, then — 

"Yes," she answered. 

"Do 3 mu believe that this is the best way to save your 
brother? " 

"I do," she said quickly. 

"And without this do you fear hinderance?’ 

Again she was silent and seemed trying to read his 
very soul. 

"Can I trust you fully}" she asked suddenly. 

"You can.” 

"Then,” she said, "I will tell you the truth: I fear 
hinderance for Carl’s sake, and I fear worse for 7nyself" 


CHAPTER LIX 


EUREKA 

At half-past one Mr. and Mrs. Jermyn are seated in 
their sunny morning-room, at their tete-a-tete luncheon; 
Mr. Jermyn looking not a day older than, on that 
, spring day a year ago, when he arrived in Roseville, to 
dazzle its inhabitants, to conquer and be conquered. 

In fact he is looking at this moment more like the 
distinguished son of a British peer who brought confu- 
sion to Rene Brian, and set— with the efficient aid of 
Mrs. Brace — all the feminine hearts of Roseville in a 
flutter, than he has looked for more than a year; for the 
flowing blonde beard, promptly cultivated and steadily 
worn until very recently, has been sacrificed to the 
barber’s knife, and the smooth, clear-cut, high-bred 
blonde face has grown youthful by this change. 

If one may judge by his placidity, his slow easy 
movements, and the half-smile hovering about his lips 
as he glances across at his vis-a-vis. Mr. Jermyn finds 
the world a pleasant place, and life well worth living; 
there is not a line, not a scar, not a shadow to indicate 
that weariness, anxiety, disappointment or baffled effort 
have ever touched hands with him. 

In all that great city, perhaps, there is not another 
man whose life, day by day, is so placidly calm, so 
open to scrutiny, so entirely blameless. Breakfasting at 
nine, reading and writing in his study or experimenting 

527 


528 


A SLENDER CLUE 


in his laboratory until noon; lunching at home; always 
at the disposal of Mrs. Jermyn to drive, to walk, to re- 
ceive callers in the drawing -room, to act as escort at her 
every call, or if left to his- own devices driving his fa- 
vorite horse, always a very good one, in the parks or on 
the Harlem road; dropping in for half an hour at a very 
select club and then back to his laboratory, his books or 
his drawing room; not a man of society, yet a charming 
host; not ostentatious, but always charitable. There is 
nothing in Mr. Jermyn’s daily life that will not bear 
the closest scrutiny and shine the clearer for the inves- 
tigation. 

“That gown,” says Mr. Jermyn, letting his eye rest 
approvingly upon the lady opposite him who is idly tri- 
fling with the viands before her and eating little, “that 
gown is charming; you are always happy in your selec- 
tions; it’s a genius that you possess, I think.” 

“It’s a sublime disregard for expense rather,” replies 
the lady carelessly. “I don’t think you realize how 
much elegant simplicity costs.” 

“I don’t care how much it costs,” he says, helping 
himself to a dainty morsel, “so long as it’s charming. 
I don’t care for money for its own sake, you know. If 
your gowns were ill-chosen and did not fit, I might wish 
the money were put to better use." 

“I certainly should,” she says, with light emphasis. 

“Well, since your garments seem to have grown ex- 
pressly for you, I rejoice in them. Am I to infer from 
that toilet it is a new one, is it not? I certainly have 
not seen it before. Am I to infer that it is donned for 
the afternoon? do you not go out to-day?” 

“I think not — I hardly know, as yet. As for the gown, 
it was put on for your inspection,” 


EUREKA 529 

"I appreciate that. Thank you. How should you like 
to drive with me in my new cart?” 

"Immediately?” 

"No. In two hours, perhaps.” 

"I think it might be pleasant— the day is fine. Have 
you finished? Shall I ring?” 

He nods, and when she has arisen, pushes back his 
chair, walks beside her to the door, opens it, and smiles 
upon her as she passes him, going her way to the draw- 
ing-room, while he goes to his study to smoke his mid- 
day cigar. 

The cigar is not yet half consumed when the study 
door opens, and his wife enters, closing it behind ber, 
coming straight toward him, an open letter in her hand. 

It is not her habit to visit him thus, and he sees in 
her face that something has occurred to startle her. 
Her lips are compressed, and there is a little line be- 
tween her dark brows. 

He tosses away his cigar as she advances, and rises 
with a graceful gesture of welcome. 

But she does not heed the gesture nor its accompany- 
ing smile; she only holds out the letter, and stands, 
looking at him steadfastly while he reads. 

Presently he has finished it, and turned his face to- 
ward her, and their eyes meet — his placid as usual, 
but questioning hers as if he were saying in words; 

"Well this is the test! ” As if he had spoken, she 
answers: 

"I am going down to the drawing room. Will you 
come? ” 

Her voice is cool and steady, but the little line is 
still between her brows. 


530 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"I did not think it would happen,” he says slowly, 
“I am sorry, my child, for your sake.” 

She laughs, lightly, scornfully. '“Our regret is 
mutual,” she says; “of course there is but one thing to 
do! We are Vere de Veres.” 

“True, and that one thing that you mention, we will 
do gracefully. Let us see," taking up the letter again. 
“Oh!" reading, “T am once more in New York, after 
years of roving; this is only m)^ herald; I shall follow 
it within the hour. Carl Jernyngham.’ It^s a well- 
sounding name, is it not?” 

“Very! almost as fine as E. Percy Jermyn. Shall we 
go down?” 

"My dear, you are adorable! We will go down, by all 
means. Take my arm, Mrs. Jermyn.” 

He proffers his arm with courtly gravity, and she 
takes it with a bow and a little mocking smile, and so 
together they go to the drawing-room. 

They do not look like an anxious pair as they sit 
there, he idly turning the leaves of an illustrated 
volume de Luxe^ she seated at the piano and carelessly 
running her fingers across the keys, evoking thus little 
ripples of melody which fall upon the ears of the young 
man who for a time has taken upon himself the person- 
ality of Carl* Jernyngham as he crosses the threshold. 

“Mr. Jernyngham, says the footman appearing in the 
doorway, and then falling back, wondering a little, for 
even well-trained footmen in livery have more or less of 
human curiosity in their composition, and this particular 
footman has recognized the visitor, and is vaguely con- 
scious that his name has undergone a change, and defi- 
nitely conscious of the change in his bearing. 


EUREKA 


531 


Stanhope has chosen for himself a character, to which 
Mrs. Jermyn has added only the name, and he has come 
prepared to play his part with zest, and to convince her 
that he has some dramatic talent. 

If we could see upon the stage such acting as passes 
unnoticed every day of our lives before an audience of 
one or two, in drawing-rooms and kitchens, on the 
streets, and in secret places, we might then believe that 
we possessed among us dramatic and tragic art and art- 
ists. But alas! our players of fleeting fame have not the 
motive that actuates these players who^e dramas are 
drawn out the length of a life-time. 

If critical Mt. Jermyn could know that the little scene 
to wliich he is a witness is merely a studied act, without 
a rehearsal, he would applaud it to the echo; it is drama 
and comedy met. 

But, while he may have reason for doubting the sin- 
cerity of his wife^s greeting, he does not know the mer- 
its of the good-looking young comedian, who, smiling 
brightly, and stepping briskly, like a man sure of him- 
self and of his welcome, enters the drawing-room. He 
appreciates the scene, however; the white hands of Mrs. 
Jermyn slip from the piano keys, she utters a little 
exclamation, starts, stops, and then comes quickly for- 
ward with both hands outstretched, and as the confident 
young man clasps them promptly in both his own, she 
says earnestly, “Carl! is this really Carl Jernyngham?” 

“It’s nobody else,” he says with the air of one a little 
surprised or hurt by this lack of recognition. “You donH 
mean I have changed so much that you don’t know me, 
Ellen?” 

“It has been so long, Carl.” 

“Well, yes.” letting go her hands suddenly: “but that 
wasn’t my fault, altogether. I hope you don’t think I 
have changed for the worse?” 


532 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“No, you are improved — much improved," turning 
about with a stately gesture, "Carl, this is my husband, 
Mr. Jermyn." 

"Oh! ” The two men advance and meet near the cen- 
ter of the room, and Mr. Jermyn is not able to decide, 
when the greeting is over, whether he has been welcom- 
ing a long-lost brother-in-law, or receiving the good- 
natured patronage of this same self-possessed individual. 

But he is a man of tact; he accepts the situation and 
the brother-in-law — temporarily;, steps into the breach, 
and carries the conversation into safe and easy channels. 

He is not over-curious, and he does not court curios- 
ity. ■ He listens with grave interest while the newly 
arrived gives a vivacious, veracious, and highly interest- 
ing account of his "travels and adventures; ” and he 
tells, in his turn, how anxious Mrs. Jermyn has been to 
get some news of him, how anxious they both have been, 
in fact. 

"Ellen^s health seemed failing her, a few months ago," 
he says, glancing across at Mrs. Jermyn, who sits look- 
ing from one to the other and leaving the conversation 
to them. "I began to feel alarmed at her condition; 
she seemed to take gloomy views of life, and insisted 
that I must try to find you. She thought, and still 
thinks, no doubt, that she had something in her posses- 
sion which, in common justice, should belong to you. 
Was it one of my advertisements that found you at 
last?" 

"I never saw one," declares the wanderer. "I simply 
grew tired of the west and came back to see if any one 
was left at the old place. At Philadelphia I heard tha.t 
Ellen was married, and that you lived here. I found 
your address here without much trouble." 

"Of course." It is still Mr. Jermyn who speaks. 
"How long have you been in the city?” 


EumkA 


533 


“Three days.'’ 

"What! and you did not seek us out at once?" 

"To tell the truth, I had a friend with me; we came 
from Frisco together, and he wanted to do the city. I 
knew you didn’t expect me and couldn’t be disappointed, 
so I went the rounds with him; he went to Chicago this 
morning. " 

"Of course you will come to us now/’ Mr. Jermyn says 
affably; "Ellen expects that." 

"Oh of course," Mrs. Jermyn says, hot too eagerly. 
"I will have a room prepared for you at once, Carl.” 

"Well," says this excellent comedian, giving the ele- 
gant room a leisurely survey, "I didn’t exactly think of 
it when I came; but I don’t believe I could do better. 
You’re, pretty comfortable here, Ellen. It’s an im- 
provement, on the whole, upon the old place." 

And so Richard Stanhope, whom for a time, we shall 
call, as he has chosen to call himself and to be called — 
Carl Jernyngham, became an inmate of this elegant home, 
and the three, each for a different reason, are mutually 
satisfied with this arrangement. 

At Mrs. Jermyn’s suggestion it is Carl, instead of her- 
self, who drives with Mr. Jerm}^, and when they are 
gone she goes again to her boudoir, again brings out the 
leather-bound, golden-clasped volumes, and sits down to 
search their pages. This time she begins with the 
first volume and makes her way through one after the 
other, passing over some of the closely written pages 
with a rapid glance, lingering over others, reading and 
rereading them, and seeming, by the noiseless movement 
of her lips, to be trying to fix certain words and 
phrases in her memory. 

It is nearing the dinner hour when Mr. Jermyn and his 
newly found relative return; and the former, coming to 
the boudoir door, finds her still occupied with the russet 


534 


A SLENDER CLUE 


volumes. She looks up as he enters, but does not put 
aside the book in her hands, and for a moment they con- 
template each other in silence. 

“By mutual agreement,” he says finally, “we have ig- 
nored certain topics, and we need not discuss them at 
length, now; but — we must understand each other.” 
He is as placid as ever; if he feels anxiety it would 
seem to be for her, rather than for himself. 

“Well,” she says interrogatively. 

“Do you feel ‘any apprehension?" 

“About what?” 

“About — your brother.” 

She looks down at the volume in her lap, and flutters 
its leaves. 

“No,” she. says, “why should I?“ and then as he 
remains silent, “Have you formed an opinion?” she 
asks. 

“About him?" 

“Yes.” 

“I think he would accept a little money. I don" f think 
he is local in his tastes.” 

“Precisely my opinion.” She rises and puts the book 
upon the table. “I think there is really not much cause 
for anxiety, if he wants money — ” 

“By all means let him have it.” 

“Leave it to me,” she says, “let me manage it in my 
own way; I’ll know his intentions, soon.” 

“I mean to leave him to you; and I rejoice to leave 
him in such capable hands. DonH be niggardly, my 
dear — we can afford to be liberal.” 

Late that night Richard Stanhope is pacing up and 
down the room at his hotel which, on the morrow he is 
to abandon, for an apartment more elegant, under the 
roof of the woman who is, to him, a veritable sphinx. 


EUREKA 


535 


He has promised to "pack his traps” and present him- 
self on the morrow, but the packing is not yet begun. 
He has been walking, and smoking, and thinking, for 
more than an hour, occasionally breaking out into mut- 
tered, exclamatory speech, and his cheeks are flushed, 
and his eyes sparkling with excitement. 

With the surprise which Mrs. Jermyn’s face has given 
still upon him, he has encountered another and almost 
equally startling surprise. 

While he was bowing with debonair grace to the 
husband of Mrs. E. Percy Jermyn, the fine smooth- 
shaven blonde face flashed upon his memory as not unfa- 
miliar; and then, as their hands touched, in another 
flash; while Mr. Jermyn, turning his head for one instant 
to glance at his wife, gave him a glimpse of his profile, 
he recalled the occasion. 

On a February night, in front of the Hotel Victor 
where the body of a murdered woman lay in carnival 
state, he has seen, by the glare of the g^s-lights, falling 
full upon it, this clear-cut blonde profile — seen it as a 
haunting vision — seen it to ponder over it, to be per- 
plexed, and finally baffled, finding no answer to his 
query, "where had he seen that face before?” 

Away with the thought of coincidence here! His hand 
has touched something tangible; this blonde and blame- 
less aristocrat has poised himself midway between the 
two Bertha’s, the one with the black hair turned to gold, 
the other with black, black hair. The one lying low in 
Upton church-yard; the other queening it in a metropol- 
itan palace. 

His chief interest is no longer in the woman who has 
given him her brother’s place and name; he has almost 
forgotten poor Charlie Jinkins, and his interests. He 
has a new purpose: To trace backward from New York 
to New Orleans, from May to February, from E. Percy 


536 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Jermyn in his laboratory, to the blonde apparition of $ 
moment, under the lights of the Hotel Victor. 

He moves about his room restlessly; the night, already 
half spent, is to him too long. He is as full of nerv- 
ous, vibrating activity as a war-horse in the thick of the 
fray. 

Finally he ceases his restless pacing to and fro, and 
begins his preparations for the morrow. He will take 
only that which is needful, and leave, in safe hands, 
anything that might excite the curiosit}^ ot inquiring 
minds; he will leave no opportunities to chance. Chance 
is too capricious a friend or a foe, as the occasion offers. 

He has still in his possession the letters of Bertha 
Warham, her photograph, and some lines from Carnes 
and Lewis Jones. These last he will destroy, the others, 
Bertha’s picture and letters he will deposit for safe 
keeping with Jones, who is again in New York. 

Stop, there is something else! In his pocket book 
there are telegrams, cards, receipts, the things that 
naturally find ..their way into the pocket of a man who 
travels, observes, and is methodical in business. He 
will look these over and destroy those that must have 
passed their usefulness, or are no longer needed for refer- 
ence. 

He takes out the big pocket-book and spreads it open 
before him. Telegrams are in one compartment, cards, 
bills, receipts in another; bits of memoranda in a third; 
in another — the last, an accumul^ition of months, not so 
carefully assorted as are the others — some photographs, 
the counterparts of which might be found in the Rogues’ 
Gallery; some newspaper clippings, cards bearing notes 
or addresses, advertisements, what-not, each having 
then, or in time past, its significance and use. 

Stanhope takes out this miscellaneous collection, and 
begins to shuffle off the little heap like a card-player, 


EUREKA 


537 


glancing at each card or clipping, as it slips through 
his fingers. Presently a slip of folded paper comes 
uppermost; he takes both hands to open it, then drops 
the heap, leans back in his chair, looks again at the open 
paper in his hand, and rising slovvl}^, lifts his arms above 
his head with a gesture of triumph. 

"Eureka!" he says aloud, triumphantly. "The plot 
thickens! but the sky clears!” 

He holds in his hand the penciled sketch made by 
Rufus Carnes, long before — the profile head of the ex- 
convict, "number 46." 


CHAPTER LX 


AN OUTBREAK 

In Spite of his late hours of the previous night, Stan- 
hope is up and abroad at an unfashionably early hour. 
He has business with Lewis Jones, his friend, and he 
keeps that young man fasting, sitting in his bedroom, 
talking rapidly and earnestly, while Jones, who has 
tumbled out of bed to admit him, shaves himself, makes 
a careful toilet, and afterward sits patiently listening, 
until Stanhope has spoken his last word. 

“By Jove!" Jones says then, “you take my breath 
away! I never heard anything like it. If I wasn’t so 
hungr}^ Pd like to hear it all over again! It’s stunner!" 

“If you’re so hungry," says his visitor rising, "we had 
better breakfast together; I’m hungry too. But no more 
talk of this outside of your door. I may depend upon 
you?" 

"Why of course; I’m not at all sure that I see your 
game — yet. But I’ll follow your lead. I’ll have an 
understanding with manager W — at once; there won’t 
be any trouble about him. And I’ll hunt up Weston; that 
may take longer, he’s so migratory." 

“Well, he said that a letter addressed, as I have told 
you, would reach him within the week and that will 
be soon enough. ^ I’ll be around again in a few days. 
Of course if we happen to ftieet elsewhere we won’t 
know each other, for the present." 

"Oh, thafs^W right!" Jones laughs lightly and claps on 

538 


/IN OUTBREAK 


539 


his hat, “If you want to be recognized by me 5^ou must 
introduce yourself. Is that it?" 

“That’s it— for the present.” 

When they are out upon the street Stanhope says care- 
lessly: 

“Oh, by the way, we are to have Baring in town pres- 
ently. ” 

“Baring! Well, that’s pleasant news. What brings 
him North?” 

“Well, he’s in Chicago now, I suppose; I don’t know 
what his business is. I was informed by telegram that 
he would be at the Avenue soon.” 

“I’ll keep a lookout for him, then — I drop in on the 
Avenue almost every day.” 

Before luncheon-time the counterfeit Carl Jernyngham 
has arrived with his luggage, and is cozily domesticated 
in a luxurious chamber, in Mrs. Jermyn’s up-town resi- 
dence. He sits at luncheon opposite Mr. Jermyn, with 
his counterfeit step-sister midway between the two, and 
all are in good spirits, or seem to be — all quite at ease. 
And they are truly a fine looking trio. 

If Stanhope has felt any doubt as to the expediency 
or success of this masquerade, he has thrown those 
doubts to the winds. He is sure of its expediency now, 
and determined upon its success; apd, whether he 
passes his hours in-doors or out, lounging and smoking 
in Mr. Jermyn’s study, watching his operations in his 
laboratory, or driving with him behind his excellent 
trotters, he knows there will come to him no moment of 
ennui) for every look, every word, every gesture of this 
placid, scholarly, courteous, blonde man, will be to him 
of keenest interest; he is a profound problem to be 
solved; a polished riddle, that must be read; an Achil- 
les to whose vulnerable part encased in its triple armor, 
he must penetrate, like Paris of old. 

36 


540 


A SLENDER CLUE 


And Mrs. Jermyn, still more a mystery, a sphinx, with 
her graceful, perfect manners, her straightforward 
glances, her low, soft-spoken words, what can he think 
of her? how convince himself of her real motives? her 
true purpose? 

When he has been two days in the house he is still, 
upon the threshold of his observations ; he thinks that he 
has noted in Mrs. Jermyn a little more reserve, and 
silence and dignity of bearing, when in her husband’s 
presence, than he had found in her at their first two 
interviews; but he cannot be sure of this, or her knowl- 
edge of the part they are both playing, of the deception 
they are practicing upon Mr. Jermyn may account for 
it — if the change does exist. 

hor reasons that are a combination of prudence and 
delicacy, he has avoided any chance tete-a-tete with his 
supposed sister, and she has manifested no desire to 
talk with him alone, but when, on the second day she 
unbends a little, converses more than usual and seems 
almost gay, he feels sure that Mr. Jermyn looks on with 
a half smile of approval. 

"I am going out in my cart,” Mr. Jermyn says when 
luncheon is over. ” I must call at one or two places down- 
town, then I can drive where you like. Do you feel like 
trying the road, Jernyngham?” 

“I think you are growing selfish, Percy,” his wife 
breaks in, "You have taken Carl out twice; I was about 
to ask him to go to the park with me.” 

He smiles indulgently. 

"Were you? Then Jernyngham, you must choose 
between us — of course I don’t withdraw my invitation, 
but—” 

“Then I will decline it,” interposes Stanhope. “As it 
is my sister’s first invitation I really must.” 

Jermyn smiles again, and goes away smiling, leaving 
the two for the first time alone. 


y4N OUTBkEAK 


541 


When he is gone, Mrs. Jermyn approaches one of the 
long windows that overlook the street, and drawing for- 
ward a low chair, and adjusting the curtains so that she 
may sit in their shadow and yet have an eye upon the 
entrance, she says, quite gently: 

"Will you sit near me, Mr. Stanhope, so that we can 
converse easily without danger of being overheard? I 
never feel quite safe, quite sure of being alone, I mean, 
although I know, my better judgment tells me, that I am 
quite safe.” 

"If that is your feeling,” he says, bringing forward a 
chair, and sitting so near that he could touch her with 
his hand, "you are unwise in addressing me as you did 
just now. We are quite 'safe to say what we like to 
each other so long as we do not forget our relationship. 
Call me Carl, please; and do not be offended if, even 
when we are alone, I call you as your husband does — 
Ellen.” 

"You are right,” she says quite humbly, "call me Ellen 
by all means. I am glad of this opportunity to talk 
with you. Tell me, now that you have seen him, what 
is your opinion of Mr. Jermyn? Do you understand my 
reason for persuading you into this masquerade now?'* 

"Candidly, I do not. Nor do I understand your hus- 
band. Is he always as 1 have seen him? — serene, grave, 
tolerant, a blonde Chesterfield?” 

"Always; I ngver saw him ruffied; I never heard his 
voice raised in anger. I never saw his eyes flash or his 
hand tremble.” 

"Then, if he is as gentle as he seems, why the neces- 
sity for this acting? If he is not inclined to dictate — ” 

"To dictate!" she laughs bitterly, and her eyes flash. 
"Oh no! he never dictates — he rules without appeal; I 
never saw his eyes flash with anger, but I have seen 
them pierce and cut like keen blue steel. His hand does 


542 


A SLENDER CLUE 


not tremble, but it shuts upon you like a hand of iron, 
always in its velvet glove^ he would utter a curse, or 
pronounce a death-warrant in that same slow, even tone, 
and he would smile that same slow smile while his vic- 
tim perished. He never laughs. .Oh, I wonder some- 
times in what school he learned that awful calm, that 
monstrous, smiling self-control; it would deceive the 
very elect ! ” ^ 

She pauses a moment, and then hurries on as if driven 
out of herself by some inward thought or vision: 

“If any one had told me when I knew him first, at a7iy 
time in fact, before I became his wife, that that man 
possessed a will of iron, a nature that pressed down all 
before it, that recognized no law but that of his own 
inclinations — no that is not the word — determinations, I 
should have laughed them to scorn. I thought it was I 
who possessed the strong will, I who could bend others 
to my purpose. Fool that I was, and am!” She catches 
her breath as if to check the torrent of words, then hur- 
ries on, with a red spot glowing and growing on either 
cheek. 

“If I had said to him, Carl Jernyngham is in prison, 
I must spend thousands of dollars to help him out; if 
I had told him the story as you told it to me, he would 
have smiled, one of his slow smiles, and said: ‘Very 
well, my dear, I will make it my business to investigate 
this matter; it may be an imposture, a fi^ction to get your 
money.’ Perhaps he would say: ‘Fill me a check, I will 
go to him at once;’ he would take the money, perhaps 
he would go, and he would tell me a straightforward, 
plausible story full of detail, as realistic as Zola. But 
some day I would read in the paper that Charlie Jinkins 
had been hanged for murder.” 

Again she catches her breath; again hurries on. 

“That is why I asked you to come here; that is why 


Ahi OUTBREAK 


543 


I begged you to help me. You are as strong as he; I 
believe you are braver. He cannot say you are not 
Carl Jernyngham. He knows little, almost nothing 
about Carl Jernyngham. But he is keen, clever, watch- 
ful. That is why I do not begin to talk of old times, 
and try to give you cues. But I am going to tell you of 
past things. I want you to bring them forward as if 
they were fresh in your memory. You must convince 
him that you are a Jernyngham. Oh, I wish you could 
make him fear you a little! Listen! I have, taken no 
steps to convince myself that the story you have told 
me is true. But if you said to me this moment, that 
Carl Jernyngham was not in danger, not in prison, I 
would ask you but one question. I will ask that ques- 
tion: Are you here as my friend or my enemy?” 

He smiles and leans toward her. 

“How could I, a stranger, be your enemy?” he says 
softly. "How could any manf Before 1 say more tell 
me — do you need a friend?” 

She clasps her white hands and lifts them for a mo- 
ment to her face. 

"jDo I! More than a child needs its mother! The 
poorest beggar in the street is not more friendless than 
I!” • 

“Then — whatever else I may be, I am your friend. 
But I am also the embassador, without his knowledge, 
of Carl Jernyngham. His life is at stake.” 

“I believe you. But if I did not, and still believed in 
your friendship for me, I would give you half the Jer- 
nyngham fortune and trust to your honor to find and 
share it with Carl — rather than let it go little by little 
through my hands into those of Percy Jermyn!” 

She speaks the name as if it blistered her tongue. 

“There,” she says, sighing heavily and letting her eyes 
fall before his gaze, “I never thought of saying all this 


544 


A SLENDER CLUE 


to you, but perhaps it is best. My husband is not n 
man, he is simply a will, a law unto himself and others, 
all the more powerful because of his calm, his immova- 
bility — his correct tastes and habits. Oh! he is perfect 
— of his kind.” 

"What did you wish to tell me.” 

“Thank you for bringing me back to that. It will be 
necessary to do something for Carl soon. And this is 
my plan: Near Chicago, not more than fifty miles away, 
I have friends, the Barings; there are two brothers, John 
and Jacob Baring; they went to Roseville from the east, 
about the time that you — Carl — left home for the first 
time. Jacob Baring has a son; you knew him when you 
were both boys. Kenneth is the younger of the two, 
younger than you, you know. John Baring has- two 
daughters; you are not expected to remomber them. 
Now I want you to talk about these people, to mani- 
fest a desire to see them, to propose a visit to them 
after a time; this must be our pretext for going to 
Chicago.” 

Stanhope withdraws his eyes from her face lest she 
should see the quick look of gratification that flashes in 
them. The opportunity he has most wished for has 
come. 

“I will do as you wish,” he says. “I am more than 
ever anxious to serve you. But let me suggest some- 
thing: It is difficult to talk much of things of which 
we know little, and it will be neither safe nor wise to 
hold many of these interviews. When you have 
a suggestion to make, information to give, condense 
it as much as possible and put it into writing. You 
can easily slip a note into my hand at luncheon, or 
when we are all chatting here. And I can say anything- 
I may wish to say to you in the same way. If the notes 


AN OUTBREAK 


545 


are destroyed as soon as read there can be no danger. " 

Her excitement has died away, leaving her quite pale 
and languid; she is looking at him through half-closed 
lids. 

“Perhaps that will be best,” she says dreamily. "Let 
that be the understanding between us. But" — turning 
to look out upon the street, “we must not move too 
fast.” 

For some moments they sit in silence, he studying 
her face, she with eyes turned street ward; then sh^ 
moves suddenly, turning in her easy-chair so that her 
back is toward the light, her face in the shadow of the 
curtains. 

“That murder,” she says in a low tone, a little husky 
too, it sounds to him; /T read all that you gave me, 
and it was more than enough. You say that this detect- 
ive — ^your friend, is sure that Carl is not guilty of her 
death; do you — does he know who the murderer is?” 

“He believes that the guilty man is a relative of Mrs. 
Warham’s. ” 

“A relative! what relative?” 

“A young man who was madly in love with Mrs. War- 
ham’s step-daughter; the girl who ran away. There is 
considerable evidence against him, I am told.” 

“Then why w^as not he arrested? Why is he at large?” 

“He is not at large. He is in a mad-house. If he 
were a sane man, he would be in a prison cell now.” 

“Oh! and the girl — what became of her?” 

“She is dead.” 

"Dead!" every vestige of color has left her face. 

“Yes. A body was identified as being that of the run- 


546 


A SLENDER CLUE 


away girl; I think it was in some large city It w^s 
sent to her home and buried there." 

"Oh! how strange.'" She pushes back her chair, rises 
quickly, and walks across the room. "We were going 
to drive,” she says, after a moment of silence. "And it 
is growing late. I will ring for the carriage." She 
moves forward a pace, pauses, lifts a hand to her head, 
and half-turning as if to reach a support, she^ totters, 
and hut for his prompt spring would have fallen. He 
half-leads, half-carries her .to the nearest chair, and 
tlien looks searchingly down into her face, "Are you 
ill?” he asks gently. 

She breathes heavily and is silent for a moment, then, 
"It is over,” she says faintly. "1 — I have had an attack 
like this before — it is nothing.” She makes an attempt 
to rise and then sinks back. "You are ill.” he declares 
and puts a finger upon her wrist. "You are not well 
enough to drive.” 

"Oh, yes.” She is deadly pale still, .but this time 
she rises and walks half-way across the room. "I want 
to go. The air will do me good." She crosses to the 
door and turns there. "I will go to my room; if you will 
call the carriage I will be down soon," and she goes 
out quite steadily, but pale — so pale! 

"Oh!" murmured Stanhope, as he rang the bell, 
"That struck home. But can it be that she does not 
know — can it be — am I wrong again?" And he begins to- 
pace the room, perplexed, and beset with a ne^y anxiety. 


CHAPTER LXI 


LINK TO LINK 

When Mr. Jermyn returns from his solitary drive it is 
late, almost dinner-time; Mrs. Jermyn and Mr. Jernynjg- 
ham have returned, the footman tells him, and he goes 
straight to his wife’s dressing-room. 

She opens the door in answer to his knock; she is 
dressed for dinner, and one of the russet volumes is in 
her hand. 

“Still studying’” he says. “You must be careful of 
those volumes. ” 

‘T am,” she replies coldly. “I knew it was your knock.” 

He passes her, and goes toward the table, taking 
something from his pocket the while. 

“I have just received this," he sa3's, holding it out to 
her. “But it should have reached us three days ago. It’s 
from Mrs. Jacob Baring." 

“Oh! ” There is annoyance, perhaps alarm, in the 
single syllable? 

“Kenneth Baring was married, let’s see, three, no 
four days ago. They come at once to New York.” 

“Then they must be here now." There is the light of 
a growing excitement in her eyes. 

“Yes, probably. Read the letter at your leisure. Mrs. 
Baring revels in detail. We will talk matters over 
after dinner. I think that I will look them up to- 


547 


548 


A SLENDER CLUE 


morrow, or shall we call together? Of course you will 
have to ask them to come here.” 

‘‘Oh, of course.” 

‘‘I don’t think however, that Mrs. Baring, Rene, will 
accept. ” 

“Why not?” 

“Perhaps you will be so good as to remember,” that 
slow smile is overspreading his face, “that you were 
a trifle jeaious of Miss Brian; that your manner toward 
her, on our wedding-day, was — for a lady — almost 
aggressive.” 

“I am not likely to forget anything that you choose 
to have me remember ” she says curtly, and he goes out 
with the enigmatical smile still upon his lips. 

When he is gone Mrs. Jermyn closes and locks the 
door of her boudoir, and going back to the little table 
upon which the ebony box still stands, sits down beside 
it, and draws Mrs. Baring’s letter from its envelope. 

This is what she reads: 

“My Dear Ellen: — It is so long since I have received 
a letter from your own hand that I almost think I would 
not be penning this now, if the occasion did not make 
it a social necessity. Not that I do not appreciate, and 
enjoy Mr. Jermyn’s letters; they are models of penman- 
ship and diction; but it seems to me that you must be 
getting well enough by now to favor your friends with 
your own autograph. Do you know that it is fully six 
months since I have received a letter written by your- 
self, and yet Mr. Jermyn writes that you are improving 
in health daily; that you are growing younger and 
handsomer, and developing a charming vein of vivacity. 

“But enough on this subject; I took up my pen to 


Llf^K TO LINK 


549 


tell you about Kenneth Barings marriage. It has come 
to that. I felt sure it would, when Mr. Baring’s sickness 
made it necesary to send for Kenneth; he talked about 
him every day, and it was really a relief to me when 
Lotta came and told me that she knew where to write 
to him, and that, in fact, she had already written him; 
she and Rene had talked the matter over and had de- 
cided that they ought to write. She was saucy enough 
to add that I might telegraph for appearance sake, but 
that Rene, learning how ill Mr. Baring was, ^had written 
Kenneth that he ought to come home, and that he would 
be sure to do as Rene thought right. Well, I did tele- 
graph — ‘for appearance sake’ — and, as you know, Ken- 
neth came. 

"I have written you of Lotta’s engagement with young 
Brian, and that they would b^ married as soon as he was 
sure of that position at Washington. Well, that has 
beeri secured for him; and I must say that he js a very 
worthy young man; one of the sort who is bound to "get 
on." Brian must be in Washington at a given time, 
and they began to hurry the wedding preparations, for 
of course he must take Lotta. And then without con- 
sulting 7ne, Mr. Baring concocts a plan, sees Rene — 
he had seen her often during his illness — overcomes all 
her scruples, and telegraphs Kenneth that he is to come 
home and be married. When I heard of this, and re- 
monstrated with him, he said: ‘Stuff and nonsense, Mrs. 
B— , I’m going to have my way this once, if I never do 
again. The girl can’t stay here alone, and I don’t want 
her to be compelled to follow her brother to Washing- 
ton; she’s a good girl but she’s as proud as you, and 
Charlie has made sacrifices for her already. Ken. has 
shown himself deserving; I’m proud of the fellow. I’m 


550 


A SLENDER CLUE 


going to give him money ^ough to buy a snug little 
home in New Orleans and keep the wolf from the door, 
while he earns his practice. Don’t argue; Pve talked 
down Rene, and she’s consented. Ken.’s coming home, 
and they’re going to be married.^ 

"What could I do after that but order a new gown for 
the wedding and make the best of the inevitable. 

"They will be married in church, both pair of them, 
and set out together on their travels; Lotta goes to 
Washington at once, and Kenneth and Rene will visit 
New York, among other places. I think it is to be New 
York first. They travel together Jo Chicago — it’s one 
of the peculiarities of this region that no matter where 
one wishes to go, it must be by the way of Chicago. I 
suppose you wilt see them when they reach your city. 

"The Rooseveldt girls will return from Europe some 
time this summer, and theii I sliall have them here; and 
I shall hope to have you too. It is so long since I have 
seen you. .Write and say that you and your husband 
will come to us for the summer, or a part of it, at least, 
and think of me as your ever attached friend, 

"Henrietta Baring." 

When Mrs. Jermyn has perused this letter a second 
time, she puts it aside, ponders for a moment, and then 
going to her writing-desk, she pencils, with much 
thought, and frequent pauses, a note to Stanhope. 

She tells him in this note that Kenneth Baring is 
coming to the city; that he will have to meet him, and 
that she will try to convey as much information on the 
subject as she can in a second note, which she will write 
that evening and put into his hand in the morning — at 
that time she can say no more. 

Stanhope receives this note as they are passing in to 


LINK TO LINK 


551 


dinner, and when dinner is over he goes for a moment 
to his room, reads it with eagerness, and a new light, that 
sign in him of growing excitement, in his eyes. He re- 
reads the note and then sits looking at it fixedly; finally 
he jumps up, stows it away in his pocket and goes back 
to the drawing-room. He is in good spirits all that 
evening. He engages his pretended sister in conversa- 
tion, and she too seems to catch the contagion of his 
suppressed excitement; but nothing is said about the 
Barings. Mrs. Jermyn, for reasons of her own, will not 
take the initiative, and Mr. Jermyn seems to have for- 
gotten the subject altogether. 

It has grown late and Stanhope has bidden them a 
gay good night, and turned toward the door, when Mr. 
Jermyn says in his soft even voice. 

“Have you told your brother about the Baring wed- 
ding, Ellen?” 

It is the critical moment. He swings around with 
eyes wide and interested. 

“By Jove!” he cries ingenuously, “if I hadnH al- 
most forgotten the Barings! A wedding, did you say? 
Why, whose?” 

“The young man’s — young Baring.” It is the gentle- 
inan who answers, and as he speaks, the lady darts at 
Stanhope a swift glance of encouragement, and grati- 
fication at his acting. 

“Kenneth!” he says eagerly. “He’s the only 5mung 
man / remember. John Baring had two or three girls. 
I don’t remember much about them. Girls didn’t strike 
me favorably in those days. But Ken. was a fine fellow. 
Is it his wedding?” 

“Yes, it’s Kenneth’s,” Mrs. Jermyn now says, relieved 


552 


A SLENDER CLUE 


that the ice is broken. “He’s married and coming to 
New York with his bride. Are you getting ready to hear 
all about it, Carl?’’ for the young man has perched him- 
self upon the arm of a chair and turned an eager face 
toward her. “Don’t, I beg of you. I don’t feel equal 
to it, and Percy is not a good gossip. Let’s talk it over 
to-morrow. ” 

“Just as you say.’’ He slides from his seat with a 
whimsical, boyish gesture. “But I shall be glad to see 
Ken. Baring again. When does he come?’’ 

“We don’t know, but it may be to-morrow. Good 
night, Carl.’’ 

In the morning the second note is slipped into his 
hand. It gives him considerable information about the 
Barings, but it is not the information that especially 
interests him. 

He does not destroy the note, nor has he destroyed 
its predecessor and herald. Instead, he sets out soon 
after breakfast, with the two notes in his pocket, going 
straight to the room occupied by Lewis Jones. He finds 
the amiable journalist at home, and they remain for an 
hour closeted together, with numerous letters and notes 
spread out on the table between them. 

When at last Stanhope parts from Jones, at the foot 
of the stairway that leads from his door into the street, 
the two notes announcing the coming of Kenneth Ba- 
ring and his bride, are left behind, safely tied up with 
other letters, and waiting his pleasure in the little re- 
porter’s writing-desk; while a key, the duplicate of the 
one carried by Jones, and which admits him to his room 
by day or night, reposes, instead of the two notes, in 
Stanhope’s pocket. 


CHAPTER LXII 


A MEETING OF BIOGRAPHERS 

The afternoon is one of the brightest of May, and 
Richard Stanhope, scrupulously dressed, handsome and 
animated, sits in a close cab that is drawn up at the en- 
trance on the side of the street opposite the hotel where 
Kenneth Baring and his pretty bride have been regis- 
tered since yesterday. He has been in that vicinity for 
nearly an hour, driving slowly up or down past the great 
caravansar}?’, sometimes darting around the block, now to 
the right, then to the left, always sitting far back in the 
cab, and always glancing as he passes, toward a hand- 
some carriage drawn up before the ladies’ entrance. 

It has been there so long now, far be3^ond the limits of 
a fashionable call, that he knows it soon must go, and so 
he orders the driver to draw up on the opposite side of 
the way, putting his head out of the window farthest from 
the waiting carriage in so doing; and now, as he sits si- 
lent but not impatient, he sees the liveried driver rouse 
himself, and the footman spring nimbly down, and he 
knows that they are coming. Yes, there they are — a 
graceful, handsome blonde man, and a fair-faced, dark- 
haired lovely woman in the daintiest of toilets. 

When they are within the carriage, and the driver has 
received his directions, and is reining his prancing 
horses out into the crowded street, the blonde man 
bends toward the lovely woman, and says: 

“Well! having seen Mrs. Baring, do you like her bet- 
ter than you did?" 


553 


554 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“She is a lovely creature,” responds the lady; “yes, 1 
like her.” 

“And yet,” smiling a slow, enigmatical smile, “you 
did not urge your*point as I expected, or hoped that you 
would. ” 

“What point?” 

“That she, and her good looking husband should come 
and abide under our roof.” 

“I don’t want them to come!” she speaks sharply and 
turns her shoulder toward her companion. 

“Really! ” Is there a suspicion of cynicism in the smile 
still hovering about his mouth? “I should think you 
would have urged the point for Jernyngham’s sake. He 
would surely enjoy the society of his old friend. And 
he would admire his friend’s wife, as a matter of course. 
He couldn’t help it.” 

She does not answer, and she keeps her face averted, 
and so they drive home in utter silence. 

When they have left the carriage at their own door, he 
follows her silently up the marble steps, into the wide 
hail and across to the foot of the staircase. Here he lays 
a lightly detaining hand upon her arm. 

“Mrs. Jermyn, ” he says and his calm voice is even 
lower, and slower, and, she thinks calmer than usual. 
“Don’t let your interest in your newly found brother be- 
come solicitude; it is not sisterly, and not wise." 

A wave of crimson oversweeps her face, she dashes 
aside his hand, gathers her silken skirts about her, and 
runs swiftly up the stairs. 

Meanwhile Stanhope, seeing the carriage disappear, 
descends from the cab, dismisses it, and threads his way 
across the street to the entrance of the big hotel, and 
heralded by a prompt servant, is soon standing in the lit- 
tle parlor occupied by Kenneth Baring and Rene. 

They are both in the room, and. Stanhope fancies, even 


A MEETING OF BIOGRAPHERS 555 

while young Baring is greeting him with hands extended 
and glowing eyes, that both wear a look of suppressed 
excitement; and he wonders, while bowing before Bar- 
ing^s young wife, if her eyes always flash and sparkle so; 
if her cheeks wear usually that roseate tint? if she looks 
always so startled and tremulous, and vividly sweet? 

“You have given me a surprise," he says, turning to 
Baring after the greetings and words of congratulation 
are uttered. "I heard from Carnes that you were coming 
here — but never would have guessed how.” 

And both young men glanced at Rene Baring, the one 
with admiration, the other with pride. 

Baring laughs. 

“It was on my mind to tell you," he says, “but you 
were so preoccupied; and in fact there was no time; af 
ter I made that last discovery, and made it known to 
you — there wasn’t much chance for talking about my 
affairs. If I had tried to tell you while we were on our 
way home, I doubt if I could have got more than half a 
hearing. If you remember you were somewhat preoccu- 
pied — for you.” 

“I believe that I was,"' Stanhope smiles and looks 
irom one to the other; he looks less preoccupied than 
his host, just now. 

“Stanhope," says Baring, with sudden gravity, “how 
did you come up? Did you meet any one? Did you see 
a ghost?" 

“Is this house haunted? Do ghosts walk in daytime?" 

■“I begin to think so. If you should tell me that the 
dead get out of their graves and go out calling — " 

“Accompanied by blonde gentlemen?” suggested Stan- 
hope. 

“What! then you did see them?" 

“If you mean the lady and her escort who just drove 
away from the hotel, yes." 

.37 


b56 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“And the resemblance! Did you see that?” 

“Distinctly. ” 

“By Jove! excuse me, Rene, sit down Stanhope. Pm a 
bit excited; the fact is we were just comparing notes, 
my wife and I; we were both a bit excited when you 
were announced." 

Stanhope looks alert and interested, but he does not 
pursue the subject; instead he turns to Mrs. Kenneth 
Baring, upon whose face he had detected a look, directed 
toward . her husband, one of those glances which women 
so well know how to give, and which can be made to 
convey so much, this look seems to say “please don’t say 
any more,” so he ignores the ghost, and the resemblance, 
and begins a light conversation about New York, the 
season, their journey, the things to be seen, and the 
things not worth seeing; he addresses himself to the lady 
and her young husband, pleased to see them get on so 
well, drops out of the conversation almost entirely, con- 
tent to look alternately at the wife whom he loves, and 
the friend whom he prizes and admires with such whole- 
heartedness. As they talk he smiles, glad to see that 
Rene is quite cheery and at her ease, and that Stanhope 
seems pleased and full of admiration for his pretty, 
clever little wife; and while the young husband enjoys 
these reflections, Stanhope also has an undercurrent of 
thought, while he talks and listens to Rene. 

“She is pretty,” that is his first conclusion, and then 
as the conversation progresses, “she has keen perceptions, 
she is quick-witted, she is honest, she is courageous. 
One might depend upon her in an emergency.” 

Rene too has her impressions, of her guest clearly out- 
lined and they are summed up in this mental comment: 
“He IS handsome; Ken. didn’t exaggerate; I like him.” 

When they are all quite at their ease. Stanhope turns 
again to Baring and brings him -back to the subject of 
the ghost. 


A MEETING OF BIOGRAPHERS 


557 


"So you really saw that remarkable resemblance, Bar-- 
ing?" he says with a smile. 

'Saw it — I should think so!" 

"Does Mrs. Baring understand our allusions?" he 
looks over at Rene, and his smile seems to say, I should 
not object if she did. 

"In part," replies Baring. “I told Rene something of 
my detective experience, as much in fact as I had any 
right to tell, I had to brag a little — about my essay as a 
detective.” 

Stanhope smiles again, and looks again at Rene. "I 
assure you that it was not a bad beginning, Mrs. Baring. 

I shouldn’t mind trying him again, with your permis- 
sion. ” 

"It was a horrible thing,” she says gravely — then — "Do 
you think a married man makes a good detective, Mr. 
Stanhope? I should make him tell me all about it.” 

"Well, if I don’t object to that will you lend him to 
me?” 

"I don’t know," hef face becoming mischievous. "I 
don’t think that Kenneth has given me more than half- 
confidence. He did not go into details; in fact, Mr. 
Stanhope, I got a better idea of you than I did of this 
strange murder. ” 

"Oh — ha!” says Baring triumphantly; "but you can’t 
say, madam, that you were not more interested in him 
than in the rest of the subject!” 

"Well,” with a little laugh, "Mr. Stanhope was a more 
cheerful subject for contemplation, and more clearly 
defined. You know you let me get my ideas of the mur- 
der chiefly from the newspaper clippings, but you told 
me of Mr. Stanhope and his achievements, and you were 
very graphic — enthusiastic in fact,” then turning to sur- 
vey Stanhope with renewed interest, "and you took that 
poor girl’s body home, Mr. Stanhope, and saw it buried; 


558 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“ you saw her friends, and had to tell them the dreadful 
story. What an ordeal for them — and for you!” 

"Yes,” he sa>s, "it was an ordeal greater than you 
can imagine, and I fear that the worst is to come.” 

"You mean the finding of the murderer, and his punish- 
ment? surely you can^t think that worse than the deed? ” 

"No, I daresay it would seem worse to him. But I did 
not mean that. I fear you don’t know how good a 
detective your husband is after all, Mrs. Baring.^ 
Has he told you that he has made a discovery that 
may change the aspect of the entire case?” then, seeing 
her hesitate and look perplexed, he turns again toward 
Baring and says: 

"I have heard from Carnes by telegraph.” 

Baring shoots him a warning glance. 

"I have said nothing about that business,” he says 
uneasily, "It was an unpleasant subject, to begin with 
— and then I wanted to see first; I did not feel at 
liberty to tell it.” 

"Kenneth,” says his wife rising, and coming nearer the 
two men, "you two have something to say to each other; 
that is evident, and I am not in the secret. Don’t pro- 
test, Mr. Stanhope. Of course you will have to let me in 
eventually; in the meantime I am going to leave you to a 
tete-a-tete\ if I don’t you will go outside and have it in 
spite of me. Perhaps I can overhear you, if you will 
kindly raise your voice a little, and if I listen at the key- 
hole. Mr. Stanhope, I make onl}^ one request: don’t run 
away as soon as you two have compared notes; wait and 
let me say good-bye to you, and ask you to come again.” 

There is no hint of pique, sarcasm or double meaning 
in her words ; and she does not give them time to pro- 
test ; but, laughing a frank cheery little laugh, she 
opens the door of an inner room, and favoring them 
with a little courtesy, disappears within. 


A MEETING OF BIOGRAPHERS 


559 


“Baring;” says Stanhope, with his eyes fixed upon the 
door that has shut her in, and shut them out, “where 
did you get that incomparable wife? Is there another 
like her?” 

“No,” retorts Baring his face luminous, “There is 
not another like her, of course not! and — you may as 
well take your eyes off that door, she’ll never be a widow 
— my health is excellent, and I mean to keep it so.” 

“Well, you’re a lucky fellow,” says his visitor. “I won’t 
say any more now. Your wife has given us permission to 
talk business, so let it be business. What did you find at 
Upton?” 

“Exactly what I expected.” 

For a moment they sit silent, regarding each other 
with serious faces, then — 

“Didn’t Carnes telegraph you that?” Baring asks. 

“Yes, but I want it confirmed. I hate to believe the 
truth. Then it is not Bertha Warham that we buried at 
Upton!” 

“It’s a woman with black hair.” 

Stanhope rises, walks to the window, and looks down 
into the busy street; when he turns and comes back, he 
seafs himself beside Baring upon the sofa, which, during 
the interview, the latter has occupied alone. 

“When I came in,” he says, with an abrupt change of 
topic, “you and your wife were comparing notes, you 
said. Will you tell me how you were impressed?” 

“What, by that lady — that resemblence?” 

Stanhope nods. 

“How I was impressed? well, I was simply stunned. 
I never saw so startling a resemblance. But — why! do 
you know who that lady was?” 

“Not to a certainty — do you?” 

“Do I! why they were our visitors; Mrs. Jermyn and 
her husband; they are both strangers, or almost strangers 


560 


A SLENDER CLUE 


to me, but Rene knows them quite well — knew them be- 
fore they were married, in fact.” 

“Oh!” there is something odd in the young detective's 
voice, and a look of increasing concentration and resolve 
in his face. “Baring, you had ought to know by this 
time whether my motives, my reasons for doing and say- 
ing queer things may be safely taken for granted or 
not. Are you willing to wait for explanations, and to tell 
me what I want to know?” 

“Of course I am!” 

“And will you vouch for me to your wife, if I should 
wish to ask something of her?” 

“About the Jermyns, do you mean?” 

“I mean about the Jermyns.” 

“Well, I don’t think that will be necessary. Rene 
generally forms her own opinions, and I fancy she has 
no very bad opinion of you; as for me — I can’t see what 
you are driving at — but blaze away; I’m open to cate- 
chism.” 

"Tell me about their call."' 

“About that? well it was a trifle unexpected. To tell 
the truth there was a little coolness between Rene and 
Mrs. Jermyn, dating back to Mrs. J — ’s wedding^lay, 
or even earlier. You see, Rene knew them both before 
they were married, and if I am to believe the stories of 
a jolly little cousin of mine, Mr. Jermyn admired Rene 
a little too openly to please his jiaiicee. At any rate we 
rather expected, and Rene heartily wished, our social in- 
tercourse with the Jermyns, during our stay here, to be 
ceremonious rather than cordial. We were therefore 
surprised a little when Mr. and Mrs. J — sent up their 
names and gave us in person a very cordial welcome to 
New York. I was so upset at sight of the lady that I was 
slow in pulling myself together again, and by the time 
I did, they were in the full tide of conversation with Rene. 


A MEETING OF BIOGRAPHERS 5(51 

From the little I had learned from Rene, and the more 
from Lotta, that’s my jolly cousin, I was fully prepared 
to see no end of haughty coldness on the part of Mrs. 
E. P. Jermyn, and, knowing my little girl as I do, equally 
prepared to see her acquit herself with ease and self- 
possession, if not with absolute cordiality. Imagine my 
surprise then, when 1 found myself able to take observa- 
tions, to see the ease and self-possession and cordiality 
all on the side of Mrs. Jerm 3 m, and the constraint and 
coldness all manifested by Rene, Mr. Jermyn was just 
what I expected to see him, from Rene’s description and 
Lotta’s, and what I had gathered about him generally 
at Roseville, and I thought that Mrs. Jermyn — I had 
only a boy’s remembrance of her, as a haughty young 
Miss — was acquitting herself splendidly. But Rene, I 
couldn’t account for her conduct. If .she had seen the 
photograph of Bertha Warham, I might have done so, 
but you will remember that I did not possess such a 
picture; otherwise she might have seen it. And why 
she should seem so stiff and constrained, and turn first 
white and then red I couldn’t imagine. 

“Mrs. J — invited us very cordially to come and take 
up our abode with them; of course I expected Rene to 
decline, and this she did; but not with the polite calm 
that she is capable of, and that I expected of her, and 
Mrs. J — did not press the matter as much as one might 
have anticipated from the warmth of her first invita- 
tion. He repeated the invitation, and urged it upon us, 
but she did not second him heartily. Well sir, when they 
went, I turned to Rene to ask a question, and caught 
the queerest look upon her face As I have said, she 
knew Ellen Jernyngham quite well the summer before 
lier marriage; Ellen spent that summer in Roseville, and 
they met almost daily; so you may imagine my surprise 
when she caught me by the arm with both hands and 
cried: ‘Ken! Ken! that is 7iot Ellen ferny nghaniF 


562 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“‘JV/ia//^ cries Stanhope, starting up. 

"^That is not Ellen Jernyngham,^ she says again; and 
then before I take time to think I cry out — 

“‘Whoever it is, it’s the very image of the girl who was 
poisoned in New Orleans!’ Then Rene dropped down in- 
to a chair all in a tremor of nervousness, and just as I 
began to collect my senses, and try to calm her, you 
were announced.” 

Again Stanhope swings round and walks to the window. 

“Baring,” he says, turning after a moment’s silence, 
“will you ask your wife to come back? and try to 
persuade lier to tell me of this — this strange sensation 
of hers, in her own way? will you ask her to tell me all 
that she can about her earliest acquaintance with Mr. 
Jermyn — and his wife? Go to her. Baring, use what argu- 
ments you please, and if she refuses, ask her to see me, 
at least, for a moment." 

“She’ll do that, of course,” says young Baring, and he 
crosses the room, taps upon the inner door, then opens it 
and disappears within. 

When they come out, the young husband with his arm 
linked within that of his wife, Stanhope is standing be- 
side the window, looking down upon the street, cool, 
collected, and half;smiling. 

“Mrs. Baring,” he says, advancing and placing a chair 
for her, “don’t let that newly fledged detective of yours 
mystify you too much. I am going to tell you my motive 
and meaning, if you will kindly permit me, and if you 
will let me ask you a few questions — “ 

“If 1 can tell you what you wish to know by answer- 
ing any number of questions, Mr. Stanhope,” she says, 
taking the proffered seat and looking up frankly into his 
face, 'the best w^ay is to begin at once. If you ask me 
something that I cannot answer, or have no right to an- 
swer — ” 


A MEETING OF BIOGRAPHERS 


563 


“I shall not do that,” he breaks in, “and before I put 
my first question I would better say this: It is very im- 
portant that I should know certain things about Mr. Jer- 
myn and his wife, and I believe that you can tell me 
much that I wish to know. If you can, and will, it will 
perhaps save me a journey to Roseville, and some val- 
uable time besides. If you cannot — or will not — I will 
have my questions answered all the same — by someone 
else. ” 

He says all this with that admirable smile of his, 
which conveys at once the impression of amiability, and 
inflexible purpose; and Rene laughs, and begins to feel 
more like her old, collected, piquant self. 

“In that case,” she says, "if I am only one stop, and 
you can easiljj' pull out others when I fail to respond, 
my sense of responsibility is lessened, and my sense of 
my own importance too. Be seated again, Mr. Stanhope, 
and Kenneth shall hold you responsible for any error I 
may make in becoming too confidential. Now, Mr. Stan- 
hope ! I really feel very much like a blindfolded wit- 
ness. ” 

“You shall not remain long in the dark, Mrs. Baring. 
You are ready? — well then — when did you first see and 
know Mr. Jermyn?” 

Rene considered for a moment. 

“It w^s in early May, I think, more than a year ago, 
that I saw him first. It was some weeks later that I may 
be said to have made his acquaintance. I saw him and 
knew hirn first in Roseville.” 

“Rene,” breaks in young Baring, “I wish 3^ou would 
tell Mr. Stanhope about that letter — it’s really the only 
part of the story that he could not get from any other 
‘stop,’ as you say, and I think that’s the kind of infor- 
mation he wants.” 

“I want any kind of information,” says Stanhope, “that 


A SLENDER CLUE 


5(54 

will help me to patch together a history of his career 
in Roseville. Can’t you fancy me his biographer, Mrs. 
Baring, and give me details accordingly.” 

‘Do you wish your biography to be laudatory or simply 
truthful, Mr. Stanhope? Because I warn you that I am 
not an unbiased narrator. I don’t quite like Mr. Jer- 
myn. ” 

‘‘Neither do I,” says the detective promptly. ‘‘And I 
predict that we shall all like him less when his biogra- 
phy is completed. It’s the truth I want — plain, unvar- 
nished truth. 

She flushes, hesitates and looks annoyed; then, as her 
eyes turn from the eager, asking face of her husband, to 
that of Stanhope, strong, serious and full of purpose, she 
says: 

‘‘You will have to hear a bit of my own ‘biography,’ 
if I tell you what Kenneth wishes, but I see that he very 
much wants me to tell you all that I can. If you really 
wish for details, T must put them into narrative form.” 

“Rene,” breaks in Baring again,” tell your story to Mr. 
Stanhope just as you would tell it to me. Try to feel 
that you are telling it to me.” 

‘‘I will tell it to you then,” she says, a roguish smile 
flitting over her face, ‘‘I’ll tell it to you, and Mr. Stan- 
hope may listen.” 

And so they sit near the window in a friendly group, 
while Rene begins at the beginning — begins with Mrs. 
Brace and the letter from Ralph Foster Jermyn, Bart, 
and traces the career of Mr. Jermyn from the first day of 
his appearance in Roseville to the day on which he 
leaves it with Ellen Jernyngham as his bride. 


CHAPTER LXIII 


THREE STORIES 

“Did you learn, ’’asks Stanhope when Rene Baring has 
completed what she calls her “biographical sketch,’’ and 
has paused for comment, "did you learn during Jer- 
myn’s stay in Roseville, or at any time since, anything 
more about himself, his past, his family?’’ 

“Nothing. That letter, unearthed by Mrs. Brace, was 
his passport. None other was required of him, that 
ever I heard of. When it was known that he was going 
to marry Ellen Jernyngham, the most exclusive of all 
exclusives, no one presumed to question. Of course he 
must have enlightened /;^r, or satisfied her as to his 
past, and his future too.’’ 

“It would seem, then,” says Stanhope, “that he made 
yourself and your brother instrumental in bringing him 
forward — putting him in a favorable light, as you might 
say, before the people of Roseville — your people.” 

“Yes.” Her face clouding. “That is true. I have 
often regretted it — rebelled against it. More than once 
we have talked it over — my brother and I. I think that 
toward the last he grew to share in what he at first 
laughed at, and called my prejudice. I think that 
toward the last he began to view him as I did.” 

“How? ” 

“In the light of a fortune hunter.” 

“A fortune hunter!” Stanhope relaxes somewhat his 
attentive attitude and smiles oddly. “Do you like to 
listen to stories? It has occurred to me while listening 

565 


566 


A SLENDER CLUE 


to you that I have a story, two or three stories, in fact, 
that might interest you. Shall I tell one, the shortest 
one, as a specimen? ” 

"You are a queer fellow. Stanhope! ” says young Baring. 
But I happen to know that you can tell a story and 
tell it well. It will be sure to interest you, Rene." 

"I am interested already," says his pretty wife, draw- 
ing her low chair a little nearer him, and thus encour- 
aged. Stanhope begins: 

"In this story of mine I shall not enter into details; 
in fact I am not familiar with all the details. But I 
will assure you of this, it is a true story. It is easier 
for me to draw upon my memory than to invent, and 
the strangest stories that are ever told are always the 
ones that are truest. To begin then: It was something 
more than two years ago, nearly three in fact, when 
a strange bank robbery occurred^ and a friend of mine, 
who is also an acquaintance of your husband’s, Mrs. 
Baring, was employed to investigate the case. The name 
of this friend is Rufus Carnes, and he is a very able 
detective. ” 

"I believe you,” says Baring half to himself. 

"In working out this case Carnes decided to get him- 
self put in prison in order to be near, to be able to see 
daily, and, by special arrangement of course, to con- 
verse, now and then, with a man who was there under 
sentence of another crime, but who Carnes believed, 
had a hand in this before-mentioned bank-robbery. 
Carnes was known in prison as ‘Number 43,’ and his near- 
est neighbor, ‘Number 46,’ attracted his attention, inter- 
■ested him in fact. Well, when he had accomplished his pur- 
pose and was about to leave the prison, he found that 
this same ‘Number 46,’ had completed his time that day, 
and was about to leave also. Together, almost, they 
went out of the prison, each man going his separate way, 
when they were out of the gates. 


three stories 


567 


“The day that saw them both released, found me at 
one of the great Chicago railway stations; there had 
been some daring trunk-robberies upon several railway 
lines, and I was agreeably engaged making myself famil- 
iar with the faces of no end of trunks. I saw my friend 
Carnes step off the train, and, as soon as I could, I fol- 
lowed him to his hotel; I had not seen him for months. 

"I found him busily engaged in drawing a profile of 
his fellow-prisoner; Carnes might have succeeded as an 
artist I think, if he had not chosen, or been chosen by 
Fate, to be a detective. The man had impressed him 
as a criminal not of the usual type, and he talked about 
him with considerable interest.” He pauses a moment 
and then adds, “I forgot to mention that this man, this 
‘Number 46,’ was released from prison in early May, a 
year ago ; two or three weeks, perhaps more, before Mr. 
Jermyn first dawned upon you, at Roseville.” 

Again he pauses, and this time so long that Rene 
begins to look her surprise, and Kenneth says ’impa- 
tiently: 

“Well! what next?" 

“Nothing next. That’s the end of the story." 

While they look blankly at each other, saying nothing, 
he takes a flat packet from his pocket, snaps off the 
rubber band that secures it, and says,. “Some people 
prefer their stories illustrated; I think I do myself. I 
can give this story a frontispiece at least." 

He has taken from the packet a square of paper, and 
this he now extends to Rene. “Look!” he says. 

She takes it, looks at it mechanically, and then utters 
a quick ejaculation: 

“Why! It is, isn't it, Mr. Jermyn?”- 

He says nothing, merely taking it from her hand and 
passing it on to Baring. 

“Upon my word! ” Baring says, after one keen glance, 
“it is Jermyn.” 


568 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“That ‘illustration,’” says Stanhope slowly, “is the 
picture, drawn by my friend Carnes of ‘Number 46,’ the 
ex-convict. ’’ 

“Mr. Stanhope!” cries Rene Baring, “what can you 
mean?” 

“Are you in the mood to listen to another story?” he 
asks, not heeding her query, and pretending not to see 
the growing excitement in Baring’s face. “If you are, 
Mrs. Baring, I will tell you about Bertha Warham — 
not merely all that your husband knows, but all that 
/ know.” 

“Do,” says Rene eagerly. “I can’t understand your 
motive, but I am interested in that poor girl’s fate.” 

So again they listen while Stanhope relates from the 
beginning to the end, all that he knows of this strange 
girl, and the mystery that enshrouds her fate — tells of 
Carnes and his work, of Mr. Warham, of Joseph Larsen, 
tracing step by step the intricacies of their search for the 
missing girl, with all their attendant results. He rehearses 
again the scenes at the Hotel Victor, the search in 
New Orleans; and then and last, he tells of Kenneth 
Baring’s discovery of the golden locks that are not 
golden, and of his meeting with Rose Hildreth, and the 
information which she forced upon him. Then, without 
waiting for comment, he takes from the packet upon his 
knee another picture, a photograph this time, and plac- 
ing it in her hand as before, says: 

“That, Mrs. Baring, is the picture of Bertha Warham. ” 

She utters a sharp cry, and the picture falls from her 
hand. 

“What does it all mean?” she says, starting from her 
seat. “That picture— it is Ellen Jernyngham!” 

“It is Bertha Warham,” says Stanhope, gravely, and 
stooping he picks up the picture, and restores it to its 
place in the packet. 


THREE STORIES 


569 


"Stanhope,” cries Kenneth Baring, starting up in his 
turn, just as his wife again sits down, "what are you 
driving at? In heaven’s name, have you any more stories 
to relate?" 

"Yes," there is a stern ring in the detective’s voice; 
"one more; but first a word of explanation: Baring, 
Mrs. Baring, I am taxing your patience I know; you are 
surprised that I should tell you these things, but it is 
necessary that I tell you yet more. I need your help, 
both of you; without it I may even fail in what I have 
undertaken." 

"Our help?” says Baring. "Our help! You have mine; 
surely you know that I am at your disposal — but Rene — ” 

"Wait,” says Stanhope — "let me say a word, Mrs. 
Baring; if it were made clear to you that a great wrong 
had been done one of your own sex, and you saw that, 
without danger or exertion on your part, simply by exer- 
cising a little tact, a little courage and self-possession, 
you could help to right this wrong, help to clear up a 
mystery, to unmask an impostor, to save an innocent 
man, and punish a guilty one, would you hesitate, or 
withhold your help?.” 

"No, not for one moment!" 

"Baring, if you knew that a man, one near your own 
age, say one that you have known in your boyhood, was 
accused of the most brutal of. crimes, was lying helpless, 
friendless, alone, in prison, awaiting trial, perhaps death, 
and if you were assured of his innocence, would not you 
go to him? would you not sa\:rifice time, pleasure, any- 
thing that you honestly could to save, or even to com- 
fort him?” 

"Good heavens! yes!" Baring is now aglow with ex- 
citement. "Stanhope what do you mean! Is there such 
a case?” 

"Yes." 


570 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“Who! Where?” 

“Carl Jernyngham is in a Chicago jail, accused of 
murder. ” 

“Man, are you mad! Jernyngham is here in New 
York.” 

“Is he?” . 

“Yes. Only this moment they — Jermyn and his wife — 
told us that he was with them, in their own home.” 

“Perhaps they think so! Listen! there is a mystery in 
the Jermyn household, and I am trying to fathom it It 
is I whom they call call Carl Jernyngham. I came to 
New York in his interest, and to further my project I 
am masquerading under his name.” 

“ Your 

“Yes, sit down again. Baring ; we have come to my 
third story; it’s about Carl Jernyngham.” 

Late that night, when half the world is asleep. Stan- 
hope sits writing a long letter to Carnes. He has covered 
page ^fter page with firm, rapid hand, and now, on the 
last, he is penning these words; 

“Don’t try to go further into his past; go to the old 
prison and trace his career from the day he left its walls 
until you land him safely in Roseville;’ or — much safer 
for him — somewhere else. Co7i7iect the Imks — that’s all. If 
he is proven an ex-convict, the rest must be accomplished 
by a coup. Do this as quickly as possible, then come on. 
We are closing in. » Yours in suspense, 

. “Stanhope. ” 


CHAPTER LXIV 


LINKS 


During the week that follows they are very gay at the 
Jermyns’. It happens that they cannot make a party, and 
Rene does not visit Mrs. Jermyn’s house except for the 
briefest of calls. But Baring is in and out frequently; 
he almost rnonppolizes the spurious Carl Jernyngham; 
and this last-named young man is in a festive mood. He 
wants to see the sights; to visit the theaters; and sev- 
eral times they go together, himself, his supposed sister 
and Mr. jermyn. Rene does npt join these parties; 
there is always a reason why she cannot, but she wel- 
comes thern all to her little parlor, and they come more 
than once. 

hjenrly always, after one of their pleasure excursions. 
Stanhope starts out for nn hour or two, and then he 
goes straight to Jones’ room, where he meets that wor- 
thy? or some other; once it js manager W — , with whom 
he converses for half an hour; and once it is Henry 
Weston, who has been looked up by Louis Jones, and 
who seems content for the time to remain in the city. 
Several times when Stanhope is abroad with Mr. and Mrs. 
Jermyn? they meet Weston in the crowd, at theater or 
§pncprt, or on the promenade; but they do not recog- 
nize each other — do not appear to have seen each other, 
in fact. If Weston sees gtanhope, there is no sign in his 
face or bearing, but at every such meeting his eyes rest 
upon Mr. Jermyn, curiously, with something like inter- 
est or inquiry^ Pi* possibly both. Weston seems never to 



571 


572 


A SLENDER CLUE 


be in haste on these occasions. If Mr. Jermyn and his 
party are entering a theater or concert-hall, he stands 
back, and watches the slim, graceful figure of Mr. Jer- 
myn as it ascends the broad stairs. If they cross the 
pavement to their waiting carriage, he always has time 
to see Jermyn assist the lady and gracefully insist 
that Stanhope shall follow her, and then enter himself, 
turning his face toward the street as he closes the 
carriage door. 

One evening, when they are at the theater, Manager 
W — sits for half an hour in the box opposite them, but 
he does not come conspicuously forward, and is not no- 
ticed by the attractive party of three, sitting in the light 
of the brilliant chandeliers, directly under his eye. 

When they emerge from their box at the close of the 
entertainment, the manager stands aside, a little in the 
gloom, to let them pass, and they do not see or heed 
him, for Mrs. Jermyn, bright-eyed and animated, is talk- 
ing gayly to Stanhope, her hand resting upon his arm, 
while her lord goes serenely on before. 

Stanhope is every day at the Barings’ now. They are 
on a very friendly footing, and seem to understand one 
another perfectl)^ 

Rene has conceived a cordial liking for the clever 
young detective, and Baring rallies her a little on what 
he calls her "flame." 

One morning, when Stanhope and Mrs. Jermyn have 
just left the bright little parlor. Baring says laughingly: 

"My dear child, I have been trying to decide which is 
most truly and deeply devoted to our friend with the 
double title, you, or — Mrs. Jermyn; of course her de- 
votion is accounted for — sisterly affection and all that^ — 
but I think Jermyn would not approve of the glances 
she gives him. ’’ 

"Hush, dear!" replies Rene gravely; "that is not a 
topic for your jests." 


LWKS 


What isn’t? your growing affection for our Stan- 
hope?" 

"No — 7ny affection is honest enough; I mean hers," 

"Her what?” 

"Her affection — her daily increasing liking for him, 
Ken — can’t you see? are you both blind? That woman, 
whether she is Ellen Jernyngham, Bertha Warham, or 
someone else, is fascinated by your friend. Think of it! 
she has taken him into her house, if it is her house, asked 
him to play a part to serve a purpose of her own; she 
has put herself upon the most familiar of footings with 
him ; they are partners in an act of deception of which 
her husband is the object. That her motive may be 
a bad one, and his, evidently, is a good one, does not 
affect their relative positions. She does not love her hus- 
band, otherwise she never would have asked another 
man to assist in deceiving him. Not loving him, hating 
him perhaps, she has put herself in daily companionship 
with this fine, genial young man. Mark me, Ken! if that 
woman has wronged another, she will be punished in 
more than one way, and the punishment that she is un- 
consciously courting will be the bitterest.” 

"In two words then, you think that she has over 
reached herself, and fallen in love with Stanhope?” 

"In two words, painfully plain v/ords, I do.” 

"And what has led you to form fhat astounding opin- 
ion? ” 

"Is it astounding? I don’t think so; almost any woman 
could fall in love with Mr. Stanhope — if she had noth- 
ing else to do. ” 

"Well,” cries the young husband catching her face be- 
tween his two hands, "I am very glad that I have been 
able to furnish with something else to do.” 

"So am I,” she replied demurely. "It must be very 
painful to be too warmly attached to a man who follows 


574 


A SLENDER CLUE 


such a hazardous calling. Nevertheless, prepare your- 
self for the revelation, sir: I like our friend Mr. Stan- 
hope very much." 

A second week passes, and the program of the days 
is much the same. 

If there is a change in any of the people gathering 
together for the final rehearsal of a great life-drama, it 
would seem to be in Richard Stanhope. He has grown 
restless, and sometimes Rene and Kenneth fancy that 
he is pale, a trifle haggard even, that he is rebelling 
against his part, and yet holding himself to it with a 
will of iron. 

He comes and goes restlessly, and the face that 
smiles gayly in Mrs. Jermyn’s drawing-room drops its 
mask in Renews parlor and looks moody, and anxious, 
and dissatisfied. He is always busy when not under 
the Jermyn roof; letters and telegrams come and go, 
and every day his restlessness increases, and he com- 
mands himself, and plays his part, with greater eiffort. 

‘‘What is the matter with Stanhope? ” Kenneth Baring 
says one morning to his clever little wife. 

‘‘I wonder if all men are so blind,” she replies with 
that little mocking air that, secretl}^, he admires very 
much. But while she mocks, her face is serious. 

‘‘Ken., I began by bepg half sorry for her; I am whol- 
ly sorry for Stanhope, now.” 

‘‘Rene do you mean — do you think that he has been 
bitten — that he — ?” 

‘‘Now, Ken. ! no, I don’t mean that. I should not waste 
my pity on him if I thought so. No — he has guessed or 
in some way been convinced of the truth concerning her 
state of mind. He is too keen an observer not to have 
read the secret of her infatuation in her face. There are 
moments when it is pitifully plain. Mr. Stanhope is 


LINKS 


575 


not quite hardened, I suppose. The position would be 
unpleasant to any but the vainest of men.” 

‘‘That’s so — and he is not a vain man.” 

‘‘No, he is a man to be proud of, not one to exalt, him- 
self. ” 

‘‘Mrs. Baring,” says her husband in affected terror, ‘‘I 
tremble for you!” 

When the through train from Chicago comes thunder- 
ing into the city station that night, two travelers, from 
among the many that arrived, attract the notice of a 
young man who is lounging carelessly near. 

They are a man and a woman. He, sturdy of frame, 
with shrewd brown eyes and a strong face, but the eyes 
have lost their individuality behind a pair of spectacles, 
and the gray bushy hair, and grayer mustache give him 
the appearance of a staid and well-preserved elderly 
man. 

The prim woman, who walks by his side, disdaining 
his awkwardly offered arm, seems all angles, no curves 
anywhere; she is sharp-eyed, sharp-featured; her gown 
hangs in sharp folds; her elbows are acute ; but there is 
a firmness in the step, a dignity in the carriage of the 
head, and a look of fearless candor in the keen eyes. 

The lounger watches them a moment and laughs softly, 
seeming to see an amusing incongruity in the two — then 
he comes forward and puts out his hand. 

‘‘Hallo, Carnes,” he says brightly; ‘‘Miss Susan, glad to 
see you." 

The man’s face glows, the woman’s eyes brighten, and 
her mouth relaxes in a smile. 

‘‘Everything is arranged,” the young man says when 
they have shaken hands. ‘‘This way. Miss Susan,” and 
without more ceremony he takes her arm and marches 
her away leaving the other to follow them, with a grin 
lurking under his big mustache. 


CHAPTER LXV 


NEMESIS 

It is a fair morning, and Mrs. Jermyn and her ficti- 
tious brother come out into the sunshine and take their 
way toward the hotel to call upon Rene Baring. Mrs. 
Baring is indisposed, so Stanhope says, and this is why 
she does not go out. She has kept her room for several 
days — this is strictly true — and it well be a kindness 
perhaps, to make her an unceremonious morning call. 

At first Mrs. Jermyn objects; she does not owe Mrs. 
Baring a call; they had better drive to the Park; but to 
this Stanhope objects; he has made an engagement with 
Baring; they will expect him — the Park can wait; he 
would like her company, would prefer to have her go with 
him, but of course—" 

Of course he gains his point; she reconsiders her res- 
olution not to call upon Mrs. Baring again, and yields 
gracefully to his proposal that they set out at once. 

Mr. Jermyn is in his study; he is always in his study 
in the morning. He is engaged upon a learned scientific 
treatise, and is absorbed in his work. 

Not so absorbed, however, that he does not see and 
appreciate the dainty toilet in which his wife presents 
herself at his door. 

"You are going out, my dear?” he says, elevating his 
eyebrows slightly, and pushing back his chair. 

"Yes, I am going to see the Barings. Carl insists upon 
it — would you care to accompany us?” 

"Certainly not, at this hour; close the door, my dear. 

57fi 


# 

NEMESIS 


577 


She obeys him mechanically and then he says: “When 
are you going to send your brother away?” 

“Really I — I have no idea," flushing slightly, “Perhaps 
you had better talk with him.” 

“I have told you that I would leave that to you. You 
wished me to, in fact.” 

“He does not speak of going. He seems quite content 
here. ” 

“True he does. Nevertheless he must go soon.” 

“Do you want me to tell him to go?" 

“By no means! I have another idea. You may tell 
him that we are going abroad, and offer him money, as 
much as you like, as delicately as you like. My work 
here,” laying one white hand upon a heap of manuscript, 
“will be done within a week. There- will be nothing to 
prevent our sailing then. Dispose of Mr. Jernyngham 
in any way you like. Only let it be understood between 
us, in a week we must be rid of him; within ten days 
we sail.” 

She is very white, and her eyes blaze; the hand that 
rests upon the handle of the door is clinched tightly. 

“Will you be so good as to explain,” she says in low 
cold tones, “why you have decided to travel so — soon?” 

“It would be in better taste if you did not ask, but, 
yes, I will tell you. If we stay here any longer, if he 
stays here any longer, you will end by compromising 
yourself and me.” 

“Compromising myself? Howf" 

He brings himself and his chair back to the table, 
takes up his pen and dips it in the ink; he is as calm as 
a still lake. 

“I believe that I cautioned you once. If you choose to 
entertain a bit of morbid sentimentality, I do not ob- 
ject, so long as you keep it out of sight. But you are 
not keeping it out of sight. You have let me see that 


578 


A SLENDER CLUE 


your sisterly regard for Jernygham is getting beyond 
sisterly bounds; you may let others see it — Jernyngham 
is not a fool.'" 

Her hand drops away from the door; she takes one 
step toward him; she is marble white. 

"If anything could justify a woman in falling in love 
with any one — the butcher, the footman, any one — it would 
be to have lived in the same house you — bloodless! 

an automaton! " she says fiercely. 

He dips the pen again in the ink and fixes it in his 
hand. 

"An automaton never does things that are in bad taste,” 
he says; "never speaks hotly. Compose yourself, my dear ; 
and go back to your brother; I suppose he is waiting; 
dismiss him in • your own way, and, if you have any 
preparations to make, make them; we will spend the 
summer in France, and the winter in Italy.” He bends 
his head over the manuscript and writes a line clean and 
straight across the top of the blank page uppermost; and 
she stands for a moment irresolute, sees him dip his 
pen again, and clinching her hand and biting her under- 
lip, goes out softly, silently. 

When she rejoins Stanhope, waiting in the drawing- 
room, she is calm again, but there is, about her, a glow 
of suppressed excitement, and she is more silent than 
usual. 

Stanhope, on the other hand, is in great spirits; his 
face is animated, his speech quick and brilliant; it is 
not visible outwardly, but he has his sensation of sup- 
pressed excitement too. 

Perhaps it is in the atmosphere, for when they are 
at last in Rene Baring’s little parlor, the suppressed 
excitement is before them — it is manifest in Rene’s 
glowing eyes and her frequently changing color, in Bar- 
ing’s quick speech, and increasing restlessness. 


NEMESIS 


579 


There is a third person present, and the prevalent 
sensation does not seem to have extended to him. 
He is the coolest one among them — a sturdy, tanned, 
good-looking personage, with an off hand-manner. He is 
introduced to Stanhope and his companion, by young 
Baring. Mrs. Jermyn does not quite catch the name, 
which sounds, she thinks, something like Carnes, and 
she does not ask, to be reassured; she does not feel at 
all interested in the stranger; she does not know — how 
should she? — that he is, for that occasion, and by special 
appointment, her chief inquisitor. She does not see • 
either, the one swift significant glance that passes be- 
tween Stanhope and this stranger; and of course the yet 
more significant hand-clasp is, to her, only a ceremony 
of greeting. 

By and b^q they are all seated in a social group near 
one of the windows, and the usual remarks that are 
the prelude to polite conversation have been made. 
Then Stanhope turns to the stranger. “Your name is 
familiar to me,” he says, “that is through the news- 
papers. I don’t suppose that you are the detective — the 
one who was — interested in that case of poisoning at New 
Orleans? " 

The stranger hesitates a little, and seems somewhat 
embarrassed. 

“Well,” he says after a pause, “I don’t suppose I had 
ought to deny my identity — here.” 

“No, indeed!” Baring breaks in. “We are all friends 
here. Yes, Jernyngham, he’s that same officer — ” Then 
turning again to the stranger, “Do you know I never heard 
the long and short of that case? Has the poisoner been 
found? Or is it a state secret as yet?” 

The newly discovered detective seems to hesitate, and 
then says: 

“Well, no it isn’t a state secret, although it has not 


580 


A SLENDER CLUE 


yet been announced — in fact the fellow has not yet been 
arrested, but the train is laid, and he couldn’t escape if 
one of you were to rush out and proclaim his danger 
from the house top.” 

They all are silent for a moment, then Baring says 
half to himself : 

"It was a horrible thing." 

‘‘Was it?” asked Stanhope glibly. ‘‘Well, I wish you 
could tell us about it. I confess to an appetite for de- 
tectives’ reminiscences. Would it be out of the way to ask 
for particulars?” 

‘‘Why, no, not if they will interest the ladies — of 
course; especially — as you know something about the 
affair already.” 

‘‘It would interest me,” says Rene, her face flushing 
hotly, "very much — and you, Mrs. Jermyn?” 

‘‘I have not even heard of a recent case of poisoning,” 
Mrs. Jermyn replies indifferently. ‘‘Of course I shall like 
to listen — "But her tone is niore indifferent than her 
words. 

‘‘Very well, then,” says the narrator by request; and 
they all compose themselves to listen. The narrator sits 
opposite Mrs. Jermyn, and Stanhope is close beside her. 
Baring draws forward his chair, and his wife pushes 
hers a little into the background, and clasps her hands in 
her lap. 

‘‘The murder was committed at the close of the car- 
nival season,” began the narrator, looking over at Mrs. 
Jermyn, who, being directly opposite him, came naturally 
under his eye, ‘‘at the Hotel Victor, in New Orleans; or, 
rather, the body was found there. It was pretty clearly 
shown at the inquest that the poison had been adminis- 
tered before the dead woman was brought into the house. 
The body was found in the morning. It was that of a 
young and fine-looking woman, dressed in some rich car- 


NEMESIS 


581 


nival costumn — everything about her indicated refine- 
ment, and delicacy. It was decided by the doctors that 
she had been a person in delicate health, probably some 
northerner come to Nevv Orleans to recuperate. Poor 
thing! No one knew her; she had not a mourner, not a 
friend, to claim the body. The room in which she 
was found had been secured weeks before; everything 
indicated a skillful hand and a daring wit at the bottom 
of the mystery. The murder was a strange one; it proved 
upon examination, that the poor girl had been killed by 
the hypodermic syringe — a dose of morphine sufficient to 
kill had been injected into her arm. The house was 
crowded with guests, and it seemed at first as if no one 
could tell /wia the body came there, for, up to the night 
before, the room had not been occupied; then a trunk 
had been brought to the hotel by some expressman who 
said it belonged to the gentleman and lady who had 
taken the room. T/iey were to come during the even- 
ing.” 

The story is old to all except Mrs. Jermyn, but she is 
listening intently, and more and more as he progresses, 
the narra;tor addresses himself to her. ‘ 

“At the inquest a witness presented himself who gave 
some interesting and important evidence,” he goes on. 
“He had been out all day with a gay party and coming 
in, about midnight, he saw a man going up the great 
stairway carrying a woman in his arms. He noticed that 
the man was well dressed, that he wore a light over coat 
and kept his hat well down over his eyes; that he stepped 
lightly and was firm and easy in his carriage. At the 
room where, the next morning, the dead woman was 
found, this man halted, pushed open the door with his 
foot, and entered; while the witness was wondering, 
the man came out again, and said that his v/ife had 
been frightened in the street and had fainted, and asked 


582 


A SLENDER CLUE 


the witness to go below and order up some ice-water. 
This he did, and went his way thinking no more about 
the matter. When he saw the body he was able to iden- 
tify the cloak in which it had been wrapped, and the 
crimson drapery which she wore. The man who brought 
her there and who no doubt had administered the fatal 
dose had probably brought her in a carriage, rushed into 
the office when there was a crowd about the desk, de- 
manded his key, and got it before the overworked night- 
clerk had found time to notice him, and carried the 
woman, who was then dead or dying, boldly up the grand 
staircase to the room.” 

Again he pauses; Mrs. Jermyn is leaning slightly 
forward, a look of strained expectancy in her eyes. 

‘‘The poisoner,” — she says eagerly — ‘‘was he found 
there?” 

“No.” 

“And the woman — she was identified?" 

‘‘That^s the singular part of the story; she was evi- 
dently a stranger in New Orleans; but almost at the 
last moment a detective, a friend of mine, made his ap- 
pearance, and identified the body. It seems that, 
months before, a young girl had disappeared from her 
home, a long distance away from New Orleans, and 
detectives had been employed to search for her. At first 
it was thought that she had been killed by a jealous 
and disappointed lover, but afterward the officers be- 
came pretty thoroughly convinced that she Had simply 
abandoned her home and her old father to seek her fort- 
une. She was good-looking, clever, ambitious, and bold 
to recklesness. She was traced from city to city, and 
finally, there she lay, a stranger in a strange land, mur- 
dered, robbed, forsaken in death, by the man to whom 
she had confided her future. She had brought her old 
father to the' verge of the grave, caused her father’s wife 


NEMESIS 


583 


to meet with a violent, horrible death, driven a lover to 
murder and insanity, and brought, by her rash acts, dis- 
grace and imprisonment to an innocent man — all this 
within less than a year — and there she lay, the victim of 
a blonde adventurer, an ex-convict, an assassin. Poor am- 
bitious, deluded victim! The career she had longed for 
was ended; her fortune was a grave in Upton cemetery. 
There is her picture. Her name was Bertha Warham.” 

He has risen quickly; he is standing before her holding 
the picture before her wildly staring eyes. She has lis- 
tened with a growing horror in her face, and now, as 
he utters these last words rapidly, like a denunciation, 
she staggers to her feet, lifts her quivering arms and 
haggard face toward the ceiling, and falls heavily for- 
ward, prone upon the floor, at his feet. 

Her sin has found her out. 


1 





CHAPTER LXVI 


FACE TO FACE WITH HER SIN 

“Oh,” sobs Rene Baring as they lift the senseless form 
and place it upon a sofa. “That was horrible." 

“It was right, and it was true,” replies Carnes, the 
narrator, as he turns from the sofa. “Baring, this is your 
part of the work.” He crosses the room and joins Stan- 
hope, who has not attempted to help them lift her, but 
has turned to the window instead, his back toward the 
others. 

“Is that your opinion too, Dick?" he asks, placing a 
hand on the shoulder of the other, “do you think I 
painted it too black?” 

“You couldn’t paint it too black,” says Stanhope 
gloomily, “It was the only way to deal with her. But 
it’s an ugly piece of work for me. I wish to heaven it 
was over!” 

“I understand you, Dick. It is a bad business, but 
you don’t blame yourself, I hope?” 

“I! good angels! No. If I thought for one moment 
that I had overstepped the bounds marked- out for me, or 
in any way taken advantage of my position, I should 
hate myself — as it is — ” 

“Oh!” It is Baring speaking in an undertone. ’ I 
thought so; strong nerves hers; she’ll be all right in a 
moment now.” He rises from the floor where he has 
bent upon one knee to listen to the patient’s almost 
imperceptible breathing, and steps back. 

“That will do, Rene, " he says, “let nature do the rest. ” 

584 


F^CE TO FACE IVITH HER SIN 


585 


Renews fan vibrates more slowly, and she gives the 
smelling bottle into her husband’s hand; but she keeps 
her place near the head of the sofa. "Poor thing!” she 
says softly, "I pity her! ” 

"I don’t!" says her husband, turning toward the two 
by the window, "she’s been her own executioner. Shall 
I call ker in now?” 

Stanhope nods, and Baring goes to the door of the 
inner room, opens it and beckons to some one within. 

"Now,” he whispers, and a tall woman all angles and 
sharp lines, with a firrn-set mouth, but with infinite pity 
in her gray eyes, comes forth. 

It is Susan. 

She takes the smelling bottle from the hand of the 
young physician and goes straight to the sofa. 

"Firm,” whispers Baring "Quiet,” then he moves 
back, and Rene follows him to the window where the 
two detectives stand. 

The patient stirs feebly, and Susan with a quick 
movement interposes herself between the sofa and the 
group at the window, then they are all quiet, silent. 

Another movement from the patient — the head turns 
from side to side, then she utters a low moan, opens her 
eyes, and sees the figure beside her.” 

"St^san!'" 

What a cry it is! she clutches at the two firm un- 
lovely hands, and clings to them convulsively. 

"There, Bertha, child, you are better — hush! ” 

Her eyes close again, but she clings to the friendly 
hands. Then once more they flutter open, and sud- 
denly she sits erect staring at Susan wildly. 

"Drink this. Miss Warham,” says a voice at her 
elbow, and she turns and sees Doctor Baring at her side, 
with a wine glass in his hand. "Drink this. Miss War- 
ham,” he repeats, "you need it. It is a cordial.” 


580 


A SLENDER CLUE 


They are prepared for many things — for tears, for 
hysterics, for denials, for protestations, for bravado, for 
rage. They are not prepared for what comes; they do 
not quite know her yet — not even Stanhope, not Rene, 
clever student of her own sex though she is. 

Twice, thrice, she has been addressed as Bertha War- 
ham; and now, as she looks about her, she sees the 
group of three still by the window, and Susan standing 
beside her; she is suddenly, surprisingly calm. 

She takes the glass from Baring with a steady hand 
and drains it to the last drop, and as she gives back the 
glass she says clearly, distinctly, looking him straight in 
the face: 

"I am not Bertha Warham! I am,” — oh, how bftterly, 
with what self-loathing she speaks the name! — 'T am 
Mrs. E. Percy Jcrniy?!.'^ 

“It is true then,” says Carnes coming forward, “that 
she who was once Ellen Jernyngham is dead?” 

Then all that this man has said — all of his terrible 
stor}^ word for word, sweeps back upon her memory ; 
she turns toward him a look of unmistakable horror 
in her eyes. 

“Tell me,” she cries, "was it true? did you, did any- 
one bury a woman in Upton — a woman whom they called 
Bertha Warham? A woman who looked like — like that 
picture? ” 

With a quick stride Stanhope stands before her, stern- 
faced as Fate. 

“I can best answer that,” he says. “It was I who found 
that body in New Orleans; who identified it as' that of 
Bertha Warham. It was I who took it to Upton and 
saw it buried by the side of John Warham’ s two wives; 
it did resemble that photograph, and it resembled you 
even more. It was horribly like you, as you look 7iow. 
We might have continued to think it Bertha Warham, 



“THERE IS HER PICTURE. HER NAME WAS BERTHA WARIIAM.” 

—Slender Cine, p. 58G. 


39 








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FACE TO FACE IVITH HER SIM 


587 


but for a discovery, made at the last moment, by Doctor 
Baring here, and another medical man; the blonde hair 
of the dead woman, that was so like the hair of the real 
Bertha Warham, was only dyed blonde. The natural 
hair was d/aed as black as yo^/rs is dyed at this moment. 
In your search for something more exciting than Upton 
and your father’s house could give you, you have played 
a desperate game, and you have left a trail of blood and 
guilt and shame and sorrow all along your path. But your 
game is ended; so whether you are Bertha Warham or 
the wife of a poisoner matters little; you are not Ellen 
Jernyngham; you are an usurper! and unless you tell us 
all the truth — we already know enough to send the man 
you call your husband back to the prison from which he 
came, if not to the gallows — unless you make what rep- 
aration you can, you have nothing to expect from me, 
from any of us. ” 

If she were doubly the sinner that she is, she is pun- 
ished now. In all the days to come, no matter how 
dark they may be, she will never suffer again as at this 
moment, when, standing before her like a wrathful Fate, 
the man whom, in a few short weeks, she has grown to 
love, as, in her reckless ambitious life she never dreamed 
that she could love, denounces her, despises her, men- 
aces her in the name of justice; pours into her eyes 
from his, the scorn he feels. 

For a moment her face is convulsed, and her fingers 
writhe where they lie clasped together in her lap; then 
she rises and stretches out her hands toward him, and 
all the while her eyes look straight into his. 

“I am guilty,” she cries, “guilty of all that you say, 
and more. But not of that—XiO\. of Ellen Jernyngham’s 
murder! I did not know it! I had no part in it! Oh, 
the liar! the assassin! Tell you all? am I not burning 
to tell you all? never fear that I shall keep anything 


588 


A SLENDER CLUE 


back. The one desire that I have left is to see him 
punished! Oh, the soft, slow serpent!” 

Her hands drop loosely, she sways and falls again, 
this time to be caught by Stanhope, into whose face for 
the first time comes a ray of pity. 

He lays her gently down and then recoils with a look 
of horror; for now, in her death-like swoon, she looks, 
even more than in life, like the dead woman of the Hotel 
Victor. They are so like that he feels a thrill of super- 
stition as he gazes; and when Baring comes forward the 
superstitious thrill passes on to him. Something — a 
look that had not yet found its way into her face when 
she fell before the first shock — hSs overspread the pallid 
features now, and completed the ghastly resemblance. 

“It is worse than seeing a ghost,” Baring mutters 
across his shoulder to Stanhope. 

And now the woman in Rene rises and compels them 
all to obey her. 

“Go out,” she says, “every one of you! Go anywhere! 
You shall not say another word to her until she has 
quite recovered. No, wait, Kenneth, do you help Miss 
Susan to bring her in and lay her on the bed. 

When they have carried her to the inner room, and 
Rene has shut the door upon them. Stanhope passes his 
hand across his brow and says: 

‘ I believe I will go out,” and he goes, but Carnes and 
Baring go over to the window again and there they sit 
like sentinels. 


CHAPTER LXVri 


HER STORY 

"It’s the most singular thing I ever heard of," says 
Baring, after a long silence. "Hov/ two identities 
could be so completely changed! women, with no tie of 
blood, to explain their amazing , resemblance I It’s almost 
beyond belief!” 

"Well, I don’t know,” says Carnes. "I suppose nature 
can’t always go on turning out originalities, with always 
the same materials. Look at it! there must be every 
time, two eyes, two ears, nose, mouth, teeth, hair, two 
feet, two hands, and six-foot the limit for stature. One 
of these new creatures from old material comes into the 
world every minute, they say; always the same combi- 
nation of eyes, nose, ears, teeth, etc.; and yet, when it 
happens, as it does occasionally, that nature repeats 
herself, we all say ‘astounding! too strange for belief!’ 
Bah! isn’t it more astounding that out of five million 
mothers, ail built after the same general plan, every 
child is able to pick out its own with perfect certainty? 
it even selects its grandmother with tolerable precision, 
and a married man, I am told, is always painfully sure 
of the identity of his mother-in-law; and yet the world 
is full of mothers-in-law, and popular report pictures 
them very much alike.” 

One of his sudden transitions has taken place, and 
Carnes, who was sufficiently, yes, painfully serious, only 
a few moments ago, is now as whimsical as relieved 
anxiety can make him. 


589 


590 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“But really,” says Baring, not able, so soon, to get 
away from the serious side of the case, “did you ever 
know of anything like this?" 

“Well not like this. Not anything half so bad; but I 
have known a resemblance, almost as close as this, to 
cause considerable trouble. It happened nearly fifteen 
years ago and was among my youthful detective experi- 
ences. It was the case of a young lady who was greatly 
annoyed by being seen in places where she never had 
been; she was seen in town when she was in the country, 
and in the country when she was in town; one acquaint- 
ance met her at a party where she refused to recognize 
him. Several of her friends cut her completely because 
of supposed slights received on the streets, or at the 
theater, or some other public resort; finally the thing 
became serioi^s; half a dozen more, too, having seen her 
in as many places of doubtful repute, and her lover be- 
came alarmed, angry, jealous; the more she denied hav- 
ing been seen here and there, where she knew she was 
not, the worse it made her case; finally she became des- 
perate and determined to know the truth, and after con- 
siderable dodging, I succeeded in running down her 
double, a pretty bohemian, with no character to lose, 
who was as like her as a twin sister. To convince every- 
body, and silence all doubt, we brought the two together. 
1 never saw such a resemblance; you will remember that 
I have never seen this Ellen Jernyngham of yours. But 
I have heard, from a London detective, a stranger story 
yet." 

“Tell it." 

“It happened ten years ago, perhaps longer. It was 
the case of a young man arrested for arson; he was said 
to have been one of a mob, a leader in fact, who fired 
some great country seat, owned by a too oppressive man- 
ufacturer. The outrage caused the dearh of a sick lady 


HER STORY 


591 


who was driven from home into the wintr}* night. No- 
body would believe that they could be mistaken in this 
man; he was identified by several Witnesses; he had 
been closely seen by them, was, in fact, in the company 
of one or two for some time; they did not hesitate to tes- 
tify against him all they knew how; his defense was an 
alibi; but they quashed that and had very nearly con- 
victed him, when it came accidentally to the knowledge of 
his lawyer that he had a cousin several degrees removed 
who was his exact counterpart. They followed out this 
new clue, found the cousin in hiding, and he confessed 
his guilt.” 

"Well!” begins Baring again, then stops abruptly, for 
the door of the inner room opens and his wife is ap- 
proaching. 

"Ken.,” she says, "she wants you to give her something 
tonic — something that will give her strength to tell her 
story calmly. I think it would better be a sedative. 
She’s in a fever for fear one of you will go away before 
you have heard her. I think she means that she wants 
you to know something before you go near Mr. Jermyn. ” 

"Pll give her a sedative,” Baring says rising quickly, 
"we don’t want any more fainting. Perhaps, Mr. Carnes, 
we had better call Stanhope back.” 

A few moments later and the door opens again and 
Bertha comes out, very pale and with eyes that seem 
burning, but quite calm, walking with almost her 
accustomed buoyancy. Stanhope rises as she advances, 
and pushes forward his own chair. 

"Are you better?” he says more at a loss for words 
than she. 

"Yes, I am better. Thank you,” taking the proffered 
seat. "Better than I have been in weeks, in months. 
Better, and more at ease.” 

She looks it. As she sinks back in the easy-chair, she 


592 


A SLENDER CLUE 


is certainly more at ease than any of her auditors, 
unless it may be Carnes, who is certainly quite at /us 
ease — the image,' indeed, of ill-concealed satisfaction. 

"If any of you know," — she begins slowly, looking from 
one to the other until her eyes encounter those of Stan- 
hope, looking away from him quickly, and letting her 
gaze rest finally upon Rene, who, with Susan, has fol- 
lowed her, and is now seating herself beside Baring — 
"if any of you know what it is to begin a course of decep- 
tion, believing that it can harm no one and will gratify 
and benefit yourself; and if having once entered upon this 
course you have found that there is no going back, and 
that instead of controlling, as you had hoped and planned, 
you are yourself controlled, bound hand and foot, all 
your goings and comings ordered by a will of iron; and 
if, when you have begun to fit yourself into your niche, 
and be resigned, if not satisfied, you have found that your 
one first act must drive you on to others, on and on, 
until your days and nights, sleeping and waking are 
turned into one long lie, against which you rebel and 
are powerless — you will know the frame of mind I was 
in when he — "nodding toward Stanhope — "first came to 
me. But none of you can imagine this. You have not 
had my experience. I want to tell all my story now, 
that I may never have to tell it again, in full, in detail; 

I don’t know what is in store for me. I don’t know what 
you will require of me. I can never make reparation, 
for I cannot bring back the dead. And you have told 
me that one death, perhaps two, lies at my door. 

"I shall not tell you all the thoughts, the vain longings, 
the day dreams, yes and the midnight visions, that pre- 
pared me for the career I have run. I suppose that I 
used to pass Half my waking hours in dream-land. More 
and more I rebelled against my life at Upton, against 
the humdrum neighbors with their marrying and bury- 


HER STORY 


503 


ing, and perpetual senseless gossip; against the country 
monotony; more than all against Joe Larsen, to whom, 
I hardly knew how, I had become engaged. I rebelled- 
against him, and against my own folly, until at last I 
freed myself; but he always haunted me; he gave me 
no peace, and I began to fear him a little; it was to 
escape him, as much as to please my father, that I be- 
came engaged to Mr. March. At least he would take me 
away from the farm, I thought. I would have a home 
of my own and order it to my liking. Mr. March was 
wealthy, and he had sisters who were also wealthy ; they 
lived in the city, and were much in society. I did not 
intend to devote myself to Mr. March and Upton. I 
meant to see a little city life with the help of his two 
sisters. 

“just before I accepted Mr. March, I had made a dis- 
covery by overhearing, it does not matter how, since I 
was not an intentional eavesdropper, an interview be- 
tween my .father and my step-mother. She was pleading 
the cause of Joe Larsen, and trying to persuade my 
father that 1 had treated Joe ill and that he ought to 
use his influence in Larsen’s behalf. My father favored 
Mr. March, and told her so ; she became very angry, and 
said so many uncomplimentary things about me, that at 
last, he turned upon her, and told her that he had no 
desire to marry me to /ler illegiti77iate so7i. He said that 
he had known her secret for a long time, and refused to 
tell how he learned it. 

“From that day forward I was possessed of a loathing 
that i could not conceal nor control. I wanted to get 
away from them all — especially from Larsen and my 
step-mother. I accepted Mr. March and let them hasten 
the wedding preparations. Then Larsen began to be- 
siege me with notes, to lie in wait for me when I 
walked or rode; to plead, to threaten, to rave. A 


594 


A SLENDER CLUE 


little more than a week before the day fixed upon for 
the wedding he sent me a letter, a horrible thing; a 
madman could not have penned a worse. It terrified me, 
and I sat down and instantly wrote an answer, telling 
him that I could not and would not listen to him; that 
I had discovered a secret — his secret, and Mrs. War- 
ham’s; that if nothing else had arisen between us, that 
was sufficient to make me withdraw from him, even on 
my wedding-day. It was not a gracious letter, and 
when I read it over it occurred to me that 1 was acting 
upon the supposition that he knew the truth concern- 
ing his parentage, as I knew it. Perhaps he did not 
know, and even I could not deal him such a blow as the 
revelation must be; so I tore up the letter and tried to 
think of another way out of m}^ difficulties. In his 
letter, and in his interviews, he had threatened me, 
threatened Mr. March, threatened to take his own life. 
I felt that I must do something, and made an appoint- 
ment with him. I need not describe that last interview 
— when it was over 1 knew that I must not marry Mr. 
March; Joe Larsen’s rage and disappointment had 
carried him beyond my control; beyond his own. I did 
not fear for myself, I felt sure that he would not lift 
his hand against 7ne\ and I felt equally sure that Mr. 
March or .himself would be the victim. Then I began 
to hate Joe Larsen — to hate him actively with a burning 
desire to hurt him. 

"And then — at the very moment when that hate was 
seething hottest, when all the hatefulness and horror of 
my position was strong upon me, before I had found 
time for so much as a moment’s reflection or calmness, 
— then satan came to my aid." 

She paused and glanced at Stanhope a moment, then 
withdrawing her gaze, she went on. 

"I had met Larsen, at his request, at a certain rock, 


HER STORY 


59^ 

Upon the river and at the edge of a dense wood; it was 
a place familiar to us both, and a very good place for 
such a meeting, or — for an evil deed. Larsen was 
thought to be absent from Upton, and he did not wish 
his presence in the neighborhood known; at least that 
was the reason he gave for asking me to meet him at 
the rock. I thought then, and think now, that he be- 
lieved that alone with him there he could intimidate 
me; but I never feared him less, and it suited me to go. 
When he left me, raging like a madman, I did not leave 
the rock at once. My horse was tethered in the wood 
out of sight, and I sat down upon the moss to think. I 
wanted to be alone. 

" 2'hen my evil genius — Satan in the form of man, 
appeared as if conjured by my own evil passion. Then 
for the first time, I saw ‘E. Percy Jermyn.’” 

She uttered the name as if it scorched upon her 
tongue, and paused again; when she resumed, it was 
in a more hurried tone, and with drooping head. 

“I did not know him. I had never known one of his 
kind— I mean a man of the world, well-dressed, cultured, 
outwardly such a gentle-spoken, fine gentleman. He 
had been a witness to my interview with Joe Larsen. He 
had listened, he said, because he dared not leave me 
alone with such a ruffian, and had feared that by pre- 
senting himself, he might only make my position 
v/orse — more dangerous. You know the man, and I need 
not tell you how plausible he was; how respectful, how 
sympathetic; how delicately he offered his aid and 
placed himself at my disposal! Already, even before I 
came out to meet Joe Larsen, I had more than half 
determined to leave it all —my father, my two lovers, 
Upton— everything. All my life I had been a dreamer, 
and had visions of what I might do out in the world, 
seeking for fame and fortune. Oh! how foolish this 


596 


A SLENDER CLUE 


sounds to you! — yes, and to 7ne, now — but I was roman- 
tic, vain, ambitious, and 1 had been taught to believe 
myself a beauty.” 

She uttered this last in self-scorn that was born of the 
bitterness of her heart and then suddenly lifted her 
head. 

"One thing, you must believe,” she said almost 
fiercely, ‘‘even though it shows me at the worst. Neither 
then, nor after, did I for one moment feel t’he sm.all^st 
regard for the man I married; with all his blonde per- 
fection, his dainty manners, and seeming chivalry, he 
was, to me, from the first, only a means to an end. No,” 
seeing the look of horrified surprise upon Rene Bar- 
ing’s fair face, and the slight drawing back of her 
figure, ‘‘no! it only shows the extent of my depravity; 

I can not even plead my love for that man as the excuse 
for my folly, my evil deeds. The temptations that find 
so many weak were not temptations for me; I laughed at 
them. It was my restless spirit, my love, of adventure 
that urged me on from recklessness to sin. That man 
offered his help, he showed me a way of escape, and I 
accepted his aid. 

‘‘When we parted that day at Death Rock, I congratu- 
lated myself upon my exceeding cleverness. I had ac- 
cepted his offer of help with a great show of innocent 
frankness; but I had 7iot been frank. I had not even 
told him my name nor where I lived. I had fancied, 
fool that I was, that so chivalric and respectful a 
gentleman might have scruples against helping me to run 
away from an old and widowed father; so I told him 
that my name was Marion Burton, that I was the ward 
of an unkind guardian wdio meant to force me into a 
hateful marriage; it was a poor, hackneyed tale; but he 
affected to believe it, and for a long time I thought he 
did. 


HER STORY 


597 


“I ended my brilliant story by a still more brilliant 
admission. I told him that I had a little sum of money 
of my own, and he gave me muqh good advice about 
caring for it; ” she stopped for a moment, and just in 
time to catch a word or two whispered by Rene in her 
husband’s ear; she turned toward her quickly and said 
with a bitter little half-laugh: "You wonder if he cared 
for me,” she said. "I will tell you how much he cared, 
as we go on. At first," and here her lip curled again, 
"he was so distantly respectful, and so thoughtfully 
kind, without a hint of flattery in word or manner. 
I thought he simply meant to be kind, and for two 
long weeks, idiot that I was, I believed him to be just 
a city exquisite, out rusticating, very kind-hearted, and 
wonderfully simple, and frank. I fancied, in my pre- 
sumption, that I had found a tool just ready for my 
hand. And I meant to make him serve me as such. 

"But later,* when we had met a few limes — for we only 
met three times at Death Rock — I found him looking at 
me so strangely, so intently that I began to flatter my- 
self that I had made an impression, and asked him why 
he gazed at me so intently. 

‘'His reply, I remember well; and how I doubted it, 
inwardly of course, and was secretly flattered, by what 
I thought was his mode of manifesting his admiration. 
I was quite well accustomed to flattery, and took admira- 
tion as my due — his reply was that I reminded him very 
much of a lady whom he knew well, a dear friend in 
fact — so much a friend that it was for her sake, quite 
as well as my own, that he offered me his assistance. I 
doubted this then. Later I learned how hideously dis- 
torted a truth he had uttered." She paused again and 
sighed; then looking once more toward Stanhope 
resumed. 

"Well, I hate to dwell upon this. What did Joe Lar- 


598 


A SLENDER CLUE 


sen tell you of my flight, sir?*’ She addressed herself 
to Stanhope, who promptly answered: 

“That you fled with him, and left him after reaching 
the city." 

“That was true,” she said. “I left him but I also left 
Mr. Jermyn. In fact I saw him only once while in Chi- 
cago; he had aided me by finding me a safe hiding-place 
in the city, where I remained a week, and then set out 
for New York in the dress of a boy. I was strange to 
cities, but Mr. Jermyn had coached me well. I carried 
a large valise, remained as quiet and inconspicuous as 
possible in my sleeping car, and just as we' ran into the 
city at early morning I emerged from my compartment 
in my own clothes, finished my woman’s toilet in the 
dressing-room and arrived here, Marion Burton once 
more. It was a daring venture, but it was a safe one. 
So far I had followed the program as Mr. Jermyn laid 
it out forme. But I had not confided in him fully, and 
did not mean to; still I waited his coming, which was 
not immediate. The cause of his delay was not known 
to me then. I understand it now. But I meant to wait 
quietly until he came. I was not yet ready to face the 
big city quite alone. At the right time I meant to leave 
him as I had left Larsen." 

“Allow me,” broke in Carnes at this point, “let us 
return to Larsen for a moment; after that interview at 
the Rock, did you not meet again? I have a reason for 
wishing to know more of Larsen’s movements. Will you 
enlighten me? Begin, please, where you left him or he 
you, at Death Rock." 

“1 will,” she said, and after a moment went on. 

"That night after parting from Mr. Jermyn — who by 
the way had told me to call him Mr. Percy — I saw Joe 
Larsen again after having formed my plans. I had prom- 
ised to meet him again, and I now told him what I had 
determined to do. 


HER STORY 


599 


“He had been in hiding for some days, only coming 
out to meet me, and I naturally conjectured that he was 
plotting some new mischief. I told him he must still 
keep out of sight, for it was no part of my plan to let 
the Uptonites believe that I had eloped with Joe Lar- 
sen. I wanted my disappearance to be as much of a 
mystery as possible — another of my charming, romantic 
ideas — Joe remained concealed as I bade him and on my 
wedding eve was in the garden at midnight. 

“He put a ladder up to my window and he had a horse 
and light buggy in waiting near. We went across the 
country to a little railway station where the trains were 
only stopped by an occasional flag by da}^, or a lantern at 
night. And no one saw us set out. I had made my 
terms with Joe, and he had promised to go back to Up- 
ton to throw people off the scent. I, of course, was to 
wait in Chicago and he was to remain in Upton a week 
to avert suspicion. He had rebelled against this, but I 
was firm — it must be thus or not at all, I told him; and 
thinking himself sure of me, he obeyed. If he had 
dreamed that I knew a living soul in the city, he would 
never have left me for one moment. He left, as it was, 
reluctantly enough, but he went. I , have never seen him 
since. On the day that he left Upton at the end of his 
week of probation, I was on my way east, and if we had 
met on the street he would not have recognized me.” 

She turned toward Carnes. “Is there anything more?” 
she asked with a touch of haughtiness, which left her 
face at once when Stanhope’s voice interposed: 

“Are you not weary? Rest and then let us return to 
Mr. Jermyn. 

“I am not tired,” she said, “and I want to have done 
with this.” 

“I think I have said that I went at once to a little 
hotel which Mr. Jermyn had recommended tome as safe 


600 


A SLENDER CLUE , 


and respectable and not too public ; a family hotel in fact. 
Soon I beg^n to study the town — to go out as much as I 
dared, to read the papers, and to feel less lost and less 
little and alone in such a great city. By the time Mr. 
Jermyn arrived in New York I was quite at home, and 
beginning to feel adventurous. At first he only called 
quite formally, just to look after my comfort, he said; 
and this suited me very well. He was very busy, he 
told me, but after a time would be more at m)^ disposal. 
I laughed ‘in my sleeve,’ for I had decided that he had 
outgrown his usefulness. One evening he made me a 
short call. The next day I left the hotel and took rooms 
in a boarding-house; and now I was ready to begin m}^ 
career. I had money enough for present needs; I was 
free and in New York, the city of my ambitious dreams. 
I resolved to try my fortune. 

“I wanted to go upon the stage — what romantic girl with 
a pretty face does not? and I set about trying to find 
an opening for rny talents; so two weeks passed and I 
had almost forgotten Mr. Jermyn when one evening, just 
at dusk, as I was walking leisurely toward my boarding 
place, down a quiet street, a long way from the place 
where he had left me, a voice at my side said ‘Good 
evening. Miss Burton,’ and I turned to face Mr. Jermyn. 

“You can't care to hear in detail all that followed. 
He seemed only amused at my unceremonious flitting; 
he was more plausible than ever, and just as respectful. 
I had misunderstood him, he assured me; he had no 
desire to impose his presence upon me, he only wished 
to serve me; would I give him my address? and then, if I 
chose, he would not seek me. He would just be at my 
service if I needed \i\m. 

“Of course we met again and yet again, and he told 
me with great show of frankness that his true name was 
E. P. Jermyn, and he had just made his home in the city. 


HER STORY 


601 


"After a time I began to look for his visits, which, 
still, were neither long nor frequent; I did not find the 
city so gay as I had expected. And I soon realized why. 
Then Mr. Jermyn began very carefully to inquire into 
my past, my history. He had ‘a reason,’ he said, a very 
sufficient one — the same in fact which had impelled 
him to follow me when I shunned him, and to serve me 
in the beginning. 

“Of course my curiosity was aroused by this, and I 
asked to hear the reason. 

“Now I must admit that I had begun to feel greater 
confidence in the man; he seemed so entirely disinter- 
ested ; he began to be so useful to me. 

'After much seeming hesitation he said that he would 
exchange confidences. He would tell his story first, and 
then, if I saw any reason in it for trusting him, he felt 
sure I would do so. 

“Then he told his story, told it with so much sadness, 
so much charity, expressed in every sentence! 

“What a gentle, much enduring, generous philanthro- 
pist he seemed! How deprecatingly he spoke of himself, 
and yet how he contrived to make clear to me the points 
to which he seemed scarcely conscious of alluding. 

“This was his story: He was married, and it was his 
wife whom I so closely resembled; she was beautiful, 
gifted, proud. He was devoted to her; but her pride 
had caused him some unhappiness. She was in fact the 
daughter of a father who had married a second wife, 
and whose family had separated when the children of 
both wives were young. The father dying, his wife 
with her two children, a girl and a boy, had gone west, 
where all her friends had gone before her. The eldest 
daughter, who had inherited a small fortune from her 
mother, went to live with her mother’s friends. It was 
this eldest daughter, Mr. Jermyn said, who was his wife. 

40 


003 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Her father’s affairs were left by the second wife in an 
unsettled state, and when, two or three years after his 
death, everything was arranged, and there was a modest 
little fortune to be divided among the heirs, there were 
none to be found, except Mrs. Jermyn. Here he was 
forced to mention again ‘with deep regret’ that his wife 
was a very proud woman. ’’Her mother belonged to an 
old family, or what in America was considered an old 
family. At this point he let me see quite clearly that 
he did not share in the belief in American class dis- 
tinction, he being of English descent; but he looked in- 
dulgently upon her prejudices. 

"One thing, however, had pained him exceedingly: his 
wife had taken only a lukewarm interest in the search 
after her half-brother and sister — had seemed almost 
glad, relieved, when the search failed. Not that she 
coveted their share of her father’s fortune; he was sure 
that could not be the reason; it was, rather, that pride 
of hers, that made her a little unnatural. The step- 
mother had not been a very refined woman, and her fam- 
ily was decidedly vulgar; when they parted, the boy had 
been a wild fellow, in a fair way to bring the family to 
disgrace; and the girl was hot-headed and hoydenish. 
He thought Mrs. Jermyn would have felt more kindly 
toward the girl if there had not been so close a resem- 
blance between them. However, they had never been 
heard from, and he, Mr. Jermyn, had always felt dissat- 
isfied. He had an ample fortune, and would gladly serve 
those children, of course they were grown to be a young 
man and young woman now, provided for and in a 
pleasant home. 

"And this was why he had been so interested in me. I 
was the image of his wife: might I not be that lost half- 
sister? would I not trust him, and tell him all my story. 

"Ah! How clever I thought myself when I evaded, 


HER STORY 


603 


prevaricated, made myself a mystery; told him that I 
was only Marion Burton — that I had no story to tell — 
that even if I were that vulgar half-sister I would never 
intrude myself upon his wife, never ask for her help or 
her countenance. 

“Then how he argued and reasoned, and begged me not 
to turn away from him, to let him be my friend ; how he 
praised what he called my spirited behavior, and flattered 
me so delicately that I began to think myself a very 
important and misunderstood young person. And how he 
must have laughed inwardly all the time! what a come- 
dy it must have been to him, to see me so coolly appro- 
priating by implication, if not openly, the identity of a 
girl who never existed! 

“His last effort was more pathetic than all the rest. 
His wife was in failing health; the doctors said she 
must travel; what a companion I might be to her! How 
we rnight learn to love each other! would I not recon- 
sider and tell him all? 

“But I was resolved to keep up the mystery. I would 
promise nothing, except that I would not go on the 
stage, or go away, without first seeing him, and that I 
would see him again soon. That was the beginning. 

“I carried away from that interview two impressions: 
the first, that Mrs. Jermyn was a handsome, haughty, 
cold, selfish aristocrat; the second, Mr. Jermyn was a soft- 
hearted, fine-looking, fine-mannered philanthropist, who 
believed in me, and admired me somewhat. You see 
how well he had paved the way for what was to follow. 
I had quite lost my distrust of him. 

“After that we met often, and he was always the 

same interested, friendly, almost affectionate at times, 

but always so respectful, so deferential. He had 
gauged my vanity and knew how to play upon it. 

"After a time he let me know that he was of noble 


604 


A SLENDER CLUE 


lineage. He toM me bits of his history, and I began to 
regard him with more interest. He was the son of an 
English baronet — there was only one life, that of an 
elder brother in poor health, between himself and the 
title. 

“His wife was looking forward too eagerly, he said, to 
the time when he might be E, Percy Jermyn, Baronet. 
This was his second bait. 

“All the time he was acting upon the assumption that 
I was the missing sister, although I never said, in words, 
that I was, or was not, and the subject was tabooed be- 
tween us. I had insisted that it should be, with great 
display of dignity. 

"One day he came to me with a sorrowful face. 

“‘My dear child,’ he said, T wish you would listen 
to me: Ellen is failing in health daily — her ph57sicians 
say that it may end at any time in quick consumption, 
and I fear that they are right. Added to this I have just 
heard from my brother : he is losing ground fast; he 
begs me to come home soon. He thinks that his life is 
now only a question of months. In a few weeks I shall 
take Ellen away, south and west, until she is stronger, 
then we will sail for Europe. I wish you would go with 
us; would it be so very disagreeable to be the sister of 
Sir Percy Jermyn, to live in London and be a society 
belle? In a little while I may be left alone with only 
my wealth and an empty title. Then I shall Want you for 
my companion; who but my wife’s sister would naturally 
take her place as mistress of Jermyn Hall? Think it 
over. ’ 

“I did think it over, and I decided; before I went to 
Mrs. Jermyn’s house, he took me, disguised in order to 
conceal my startling likeness to his wife — he feared it 
would shock her at first, he said — to the office of her 
physician; he wanted me to hear his verdict — to under- 
stand the worst. 


HER STORY 


605 


‘ The physician’s verdict was soon given: He regretted 
to say that Mrs. Jermyn’s health could never be restored. 
He doubted if she could outlive the summer. She 
was looking a little better just at present, but it was 
not a healthy condition — only a temporary rally. 

“He had planned it all, but he managed to make me 
think it was almost my own idea. I was to disguise my- 
self to the extent of a wig and eyeglasses, and be intro- 
duced into his house as his amanuensis; I could thus see 
and judge Mrs. Jermyn, and decide whether I would like 
to travel with her, and be her sister, or 'not. I did not 
see much use of this, for T had already decided; but he 
arranged it, and carried his point in every particular. 

"Well- — I went with him from the doctor’s office to his 
house, and we met Mrs. Jermyn quite unexpectedly at 
the very entrance. 

"I do not care to dwell upon that meeting, nor upon 
what followed. Mrs. Jermyn is dead; and from the very 
first I may have wronged her. When her husband named 
me to her, I thought for. one moment that she meant to 
strike me; then she gathered her draperies away from 
any possible contact with mine, and giving me such a 
look as one might cast at a thing despised and despica 
ble, she sWept past me and out of the house. 

"It was done — what Mr. Jermyn alone might not have 
prevailed upon me to do, his wife drove me to, with 
one look. From that moment I hated her. 

“The rest came about gradually; when Mr. Jermyn and 
his wife left home to travel southward we understood 
each other; when they had been gone a week I also went 
south; I went to Charleston. Just before the opening 
of the carnival, I went to New Orleans. 

"I had hardened myself to my part ; had almost per- 
suaded myself that the thirig I was meditating was not 
a great wrcmg; that it would harm no one. I arrived in 


606 


A SLENDER CLUE 


good spirits, and he met me and drove with me to a 
hotel, a small but comfortable place, where I stayed 
quietly all through the carnival season, up to the last 
day. 

“He did not name his wife, nor did I ask after her. 
It was not necessary. And I did not see him again 
until the morning after Mardi gras. Then he sent me 
a message, which I understood, and I packed my trunk 
and sent it to the steamboat landing. He met me 
there, and we went on board a northward bound 
steamer. 

“Then he told me very gently that his wife was dead; 
that she had been dead four weeks; and now there was 
only one thing to be done. He had sent, months before, 
a picture of his dead wife, to his friends in England, 
and they knew all about her family, and her fortune; 
they were prepared, and anxious to welcome her to 
Jermyn. 

“Why need they ever be told that he had made a sec- 
ond marriage? every thing was so well arranged for a 
welcome over there, and so many explanations were 
needed. His wife’s will left him her sole heir; had he 
not a right to give me his wife’s fortune, and his wife’s 
name if he chose? Thus my story, my past, whatever it 
was, might remain my own secret; there would be 
nothing to explain to the English baronet, and, for him- 
self, he did not care about my past; we would bury it 
utterly. 

“How easy it all seemed. I had only to turn my 
blonde locks black, and allow him to call me Ellen. 

“We stopped at Memphis, took a carriage, and drove 
inland to a little town, where we were married; then 
back again, and up the river, back to New York. I had 
not seen the newspapers; if I had, and had read how 
that dead woman was mistaken for me I should have 


HER STORY 


607 


understood it all. And now you will see, Mr. Stanhope, 
why it was so easy to make me believe in your Carl 
Jernyngham. I thought that the missing brother had 
appeared at last, and I was honestly, anxiously deter- 
mined to help him. 

"Ellen Jernyngham kept a journal, always I think; at 
least he had in his possession several volumes covering 
a number of years; they were daily records, minute and 
full of detail. He gave them into my hands without 
hesitation. He said I could learn my part and be per- 
fect in it by studying these; and when I asked him who 
had torn out the leaves containing the latest records, he 
laughed and said that they would not have given me 
much light. I knew then that he had removed them ; 
doubtless what they contained was not creditable to 
him. I learned from these journals that there really 
was a half-brother, but there was no mention of a sister, 
and when I demanded an explanation of him, he smiled 
that slow smile of his, and said that ‘all women were 
sisters, more or less.’ 

"Through these journals, I was able to play my pa-rt 
without blundering; and where they lacked, his memory 
supplied the deficiency; but I did not dare to imitate 
her handwriting, although I was practicing faithfully, 
in order to become — a forger — on the dead. Gentlemen, 
have I omitted anything? Is there anything more to ex- 
plain?” 

In the long pause that follows her question, she speaks 
again : 

"I have not tried to give you an idea of what my life 
has been with this man. It would be useless; he is a 
man of steel, masked in smiles and soft blonde flesh. 
He never argues, never explains, nerer lifts his voice in 
anger; but he rules, and he brooks it/x opposition. From 
the day when I married him, I have tio visible, ex- 


008 


A SLENDER CLUE 


pressed will, no identity of my own. I soon saw the 
folly of striving against him, and tried to meet him on 
his own ground. I am not going to ask for mercy at 
your hands. I don’t want you to spare me. But one 
thing I do ask ; Let me go back to that house, where I 
have been mistress onL in name; let me stand before 
him and tell him that I know how Ellen Jernyngham 
died. I want to see his face. I want to know if any- 
thing will move him! I want to stand by when you pull 
the mask from his face. I want to show him that I can 
jibe with a smile, and be relentless in soft accents, too. 
I want him to see how apt a pupil he has had. And I 
want you to tell me first all that you know of his past 
career. Humor me in this, and I will obey you in all 
else — in anfithmg, " 


CHAPTER LXVIII 

HER PUNISHMENT 

“There are two or three points, ’’ said Stanhope,, “which 
we may as well clear up now. d hey are of minor im- 
portance, but I think we will do well to talk them over 
— briefly. ’’ 

He had been telling Bertha Warham what she had 
wished to know concerning the career of the man she 
had taken for her husband, that she might enjoy the 
wealth anci usurp the position of the woman who had 
insulted her. 

They were alone in Rene Baring’s little parlor, the 
others having withdrawn, Rene out of womanly delicacy, 
the men because they already knew quite enough of E. 
Percy Jermyn. 

She lifted her face with a look that was half-reserve 
and half timidity. 

“There is nothing I wish to conceal," she said. 

“When I came here in search of you," said Stanhope, 
“I traced you, through your picture, to the theater where 
you had made an engagement and were expected to come 
to take your part in a new spectacle. 

“One evening you called upon the manager and arranged 
to come next morning to rehearsal. I was there on time, 
but never came; you left your boarding place im- 
mediately after your last visit to the theater. Did 
you know that you were being followed?" 

She shook her head; “No," she said, “I had made my- 
self very disagreeable, after that encounter with Mrs. 

609 


610 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Ellen Jermyn, and had gone to manager W — and applied 
for the place in spite of his remonstrance. I was in an 
uncertain state of mind that night whether to break away 
from the Jermyn influence and go upon the stage, 
or accept the future which he' had laid before me, 
and that night I was to decide. I had thought all 
day, and my better angel seemed to prevail. I went 
to the manager in good faith — but again my wicked 
pride held me back from the safer course. Manager 
W — had been very polite and kindly at our first inter- 
view. He was kind at that, and polite too, but there was 
a something in his manner when I entered his presence, 
a look in his eye, an air of — I can’t express it. . Plainly 
put, he had received me before as a gentleman receives 
a lady; this time he did not. The change was not in his 
speech, but in look and manner. My pride was touched; 

I had heard and read of the scant courtesy sometimes 
shown to those in lesser places in the great theaters. I 
left his office in a most unpleasant frame of mind. In 
going downstairs I saw, in one. of the great mirrors 
along the wall, the im.age of Manager W — following me 
stealthily downstairs. I took a cab at the door, and 
half-way home exchanged it for another. I reached my 
rooms in a rage, packed in haste, wrote a note to Mr. 
Jermyn telling him that I had decided in his favor — and 
turned my back upon the theater.” 

‘T comprehend,” said the detective. “Manager W — 
had heard my story. You appeared to him in a new 
light and he let this be seen in his manner. It was un- 
fair, unmanly. Perhaps, too, you were oversensitive. ” 

“I expected too much,, no doubt,” she said bitterly. 
”Is there anything else, Mr. Stanhope?” 

‘One thing — why did you ask me to personate Carl 
Jernyngham?” 

She put her two hands up to her head. 


HER PUNISHMENT 


Gil 


“Oh!” she said, “do you not understand that? I had 
begun to feel unsafe and — I wanted, honestly wanted to 
help that unfortunate man. I meant, if all had gone as 
I wished, to escape from Mr. Jermyn with your assist- 
ance. " 

“Had the man given you reason to fear him?” 

Again she put her hand to her brow, “Surely." she 
said, “I have omitted something! Did I not speak of El- 
len Jernyngham’s will?” 

“I think not — definitely — ” 

“It was because of that. He had told me that she had 
left him everything, and fool that I was, I married him 
thinking that, little as I cared for him, he must have 
some regard for me. Why else should he wish me to be 
his wife? I soon learned the truth. Ellen Jernyngham 
had held her own purse strings, and she had left a will 
with some New York lawyer. It left everything to 
Carl Jern 5 mgham — everything but five thousand dollars. 
To announce the death of his wife would deprive him 
of a fortune. Do you see it now? with me in Ellen 
Jernyngham’s place, her fortune was not lost to him. 
Do you realize what I am confessing to you? 1 am a for- 
ger — a forger upon the dead. I have drawn her money in 
person, signing the cheeks with gloved hand in order to 
be more secure in my imitation. What shall you do with 
me?" 

Nothing, if you do all in your power to make restitu- 
tion now; if you will go back to Upton with honest 
Susan and make your old father’s last days less lonely." 

“I will do whatever you wish.” 

“What has been done with that will?” 

‘There were two copies made — she must have doubted 
and feared him too. He wanted to destroy the will and 
I at first opposed him; then, when I found that there was 
a duplicate, I let him burn the copy.” 


613 


A SLENDER CLUE 


“Did he ask you to sign another?’' 

“Ah! I see that you understand. He wished me to 
sign another — in his favor — I — refused. ’’ 

“Ah ha!” he ejaculated. “I can see why you feared for 
yourself." 

For a moment there was silence between them, then 
she said: 

“In all that I have told you, do not think that I have 
been trying to lighten my own load, to make my punish- 
ment less. God knows I have been guilty enough. I 
have forsaken my father, deceived an honest man who 
wished to make me his wife; listened to the proposals 
of a man whom I did not love, and only half-trusted at 
the best, while yet his wife was living, usurped her 
place, name and fortune when dead, and all this to grat- 
ify a wicked vanity, an ignoble ambition. I was not 
.slow in learning that the man I had married was heart- 
less and without principle. But a murderer — I never 
dreamed of that, so help me heaven!" 

There was a long pause, and she arose and moved a 
step nearer him. "Do you believe me?" she said in a 
tremulous half-whisper. 

For a moment his eyes met hers, searching them stead- 
ily, then: "1 do," he said, and held out his hand. 

“Thank you," she withdrew her hand quickly and moved 
away a little. “I want to ask a favor," she added. 

"What is it?" 

"Carl Jernyngham. You will see him soon?" 

"There is no time to lose." 

"I would like to put the will — his sister’s papers into 
his own hand. I want to tell him the truth." 

"You are trying to be hard upon yourself," he said. 

"It is the simplest way — I want to do it." 

"You shall, then. But reflect ; your trial will be hard 
enough at best. Your— Jermyn will certainly be brought 
to trial — you will have to appear against him." 





“LOVE HAS PASSED ME BY. ’’-Slender Clue, p. 613 







HER PUNISHMENT 


61 S 


“I have not flinched at the evil; I will not flinch now. 
One thing more — you will let me be the first to con- 
front Percy Jermyn?” 

“Yes, we have already arranged it so; ’’ — he moved a 
pace toward the door— “we will lunch here,” he said, 
turning back, “and will leave in an hour, if you are 
strong enough for more excitement.” 

“I am strong enough; go on.” 

“We dare not lose time in securing that' man. The 
house of course is closely watched. We will go back as 
we came, you and I — the others will follow, and now," 
he put his hand upon the door handle, “I will send you 
Susan?” 

“Mr. Stanhope,” — she made a forward movement, then 
stopped in the middle of the room, “I cannot thank you, 
and I cannot blame you. You have done right, and you 
have spared me where you could. I will not speak of 
repentance, to you, or to anyone. Whether I am a wo- 
man repentant, or simply a woman baffled, time — the 
future — must show.” 

He bowed silently, went out, and softly closed the 
door. 

For a moment she stood as he had left her, and her 
gaze seemed still to be following him. 

Then she clinched her hands and lifted. them thus to 
her pallid face. 

“Oh!” she uttered through shut teeth as she turned 
away. “Let the future, bring what it will, I shall never 
be punished, I shall never suffer more, than at this mo- 
ment. I have lost all — and love— love has passed me 
by!” 


CHAPTER LX IX 


UNMASKED 

It is high noon when E. Percy Jermyn finishes a 
magnificent paragraph with a graceful sweep of the pen, 
and pushes back his chair from the study-table. 

He glances at his watch and smiles a smile of satis 
faction; his excellent scientific treatise is progressing 
rapidly — it is nearly done. He gets up, yawns, and goes 
to the window that overlooks the street. Two policemen 
are passing, walking slowly, intent, it would seem, upon 
seeing how slow they could be. Oh! and Mrs. Jermyn’s 
carriage is drawing up at the door; prompt to the lunch- 
eon-hour, he thinks, for Mr. Jermyn mortally dislikes to 
sit at table alone. 

Yes, she is getting out, and Jernyngham is with her; 
he presses his lips together, and turns from the window, 
just a second too soon to see that another person is 
alighting from the carriage. 

He goes back to the writing-table and busies himself 
for a moment, putting the heaped-up manuscript into an 
orderly pile, crossing the fens upon the rack, putting 
the stopper into the mouth of the inkstand, toying with 
the paper-weights. 

As he turns from the table, the door opens, and Mrs. 
Jermyn is again before him. Her cheeks are aflame, her 
eyes glowing, her lips par-ted, her manner that of one 
wbo comes with a fixed purpose, but save for the un- 
wonted fire in her face, she shows no sign of emotion, 
she is as calm as he. As the door swings shut behind 

(514 


UNMASKED 


615 


her, she advances, until only the width of the table is 
between them. 

"I have heard something startling this morning,” she 
says in a voice not at all like that of a startled woman. 
"It came up in the course of conversation; we were 
talking about New Orleans.” 

“Ah?” says Mr. Jermyn with polite interest. 

"And the Mardi gras!” 

“Interesting subject, very.” 

“It appears that Mr. Baring was in New Orleans dur- 
ing the late carnival, and he chanced to be called upon 
to assist at an examination at the Hotel Victor. It was 
a poisoning affair. I was interested in the case because 
the victim was identified as one Bertha Warham who ran 
away from her home months before.” 

“Really! I am interested.” 

“Perhaps it will increase your interest to know that 
the dead woman was. not Bertha Warham, although she 
is lying now in the Warham burying-place, with ‘Bertha 
Warham’ upon her coffin-plate. She was a poor murdered 
wife, who unfortunately 7'esembled Bertha Warham too 
closely.” 

She is conscious of a change in his face — it is not 
fear, it is not anger, she cannot define it; she only knows 
that his face is changing, and she feels her first 
thrill of triumph — at last she has power to move him. 

“The name of this murdered wife,” she goes on dis- 
tinctly, “was Ellen Jerny.ngham Jermyn. They did not 
tell me this. It was not necessary. Oh, you are the 
only man in the world who could have done such a 
deed! to kill her and let them bury her in my grave!" 

“Was it your grave?” 

There is a change in his voice too, but that, like the 
other, is indescribable. 

“It was the grave of Bertha Warham, and, before I 


016 


A SLBNDBR CLUB 


became — bah! before I became the wife of an assassiiij 
I was Bertha Warham. ' 

“Yes? I have suspected as much. Do you find it un- 
pleasant to be — the wife of an ^assassin?^ You knowhow 
I hate vulgar, common epithets, Mrs. Jermyn. Do you 
mean to tell me that you have been as blind as you 
would have me believe? — you — clever as you undeniably 
are? " 

“Clever? yes, I have been clever! Do you know what I 
am going to do, poisoner? I am going to open these 
doors, and call in the police, and say to them, that man 
is a murderer — arrest him." 

The man actually laughs. 

“If you do," he says, “I shall say, ‘gentlemen, my poor 
wife is out of her senses; she has been insane at intervals 
for months, I will show you the physician’s certificate to 
that effect. She has been quite gentle until recently. 
But I have known that I must be prepared for a change, 
so as 3mu are here, gentlemen, I will ask you to assist 
me; we will take her to the hospital,* and then I will 
show them the certificate which I brought from New 
Orleans . ” 

It is her turn now, and she laughs, scornfully, bit- 
terly. 

“Try it," she says and in an instant she is at the door. 

“Gentlemen, enter! " 

Before the words have passed her lips they are in 
the doorway! in the room — Stanhope and Carnes. 

Stanhope is pale and grim, but Carnes is jubilant. 

He advances until he, like Bertha, stands opposite the 
blonde man behind the table, and then he makes a 
mocking salute: 

“‘Number 46,’ hail! I knew we should meet again!" 

Then the blonde face, always pale, becomes a shade 
paler; the eyelids for one instant droop and conceal the 



UhlMASKED 


617 


steel-blue eyes; the aristocratic hands are fiercely 
clinched; but it is over in a moment, and the cool, slow 
voice is as slow and cool as ever when it says: 

"Jernyngham, be so good as to introduce your friend.” 

“If you want to be exact,” the young man addressed 
says shortly, "you might call me Stanhope — that’s my 
name. ” 

“Oh! ” says Jermyn, his steel-blue glance going from 
Stanhope to Bertha, and back to Stanhope again, “this 
is better than I thought!” and his look says more than 
his words. 

“Your opinion is not valuable at present. My friend 
here, whom I am happy to present, is detective Rufus 
Carnes — -I understand that you have met before. I will 
name you to Mr. Carnes, if you will signify the alias 
which you prefer — Hartwell, Edwards, Poinsett Jermyn, 
or ‘Number 46.’ Your play is played out, sir. You are 
wanted at New Orleans for the murder of your, wife, 
Ellen Jernyngham Jermyn.” 

“You are a bold fellow!” Jermyn sneers. “I suppose 
thdii you are a detective too.” 

“You are correct in your suppositions.” 

“Oh! and what hdiwe. you done?” 

“I am the man who mistook the dead body of your 
wife for that of this young woman, of whom I had been 
in search for months. A history of your career since you 
left that Illinois prison will prove quite as interesting 
to the readers of the New Orleans papers as did the his- 
tory of the murder at the Hotel Victor.” 

Jermyn is very pale now, and he sinks into the chair 
behind him, but when he speaks it is the same controlled 
voice. 

“Gentlemen,” he says, “be so good as to state clearly 
your charge against me.” 

“We charge you,” says Stanhope with a touch of im- 


018 


A SLENDER CLUE 


patience, "with the murder of your wife, Ellen Jernyng- 
ham. 

"Oh, and your proofs?” 

"Your past career as forger and cheat; your ten years 
sojourn in the penitentiary; your successful fortune-hunt- 
ing expedition to Roseville with your forged letters 
from an English noble, will pave the way for our proofs 
and establish for you a suitable character; and Madam 
Dauphine, the man who served you as coachman and 
lackey, the man from whom you bought the hypodermic 
syringe, one Henry Weston, who saw you carry the body 
to room 99 of the Hotel Victor, Mr. Baring and myself, 
who saw you, on the night of the inquest, when you 
came back to the Hotel Victor, but dared not enter; 
Mr. Carnes here, who knows something of your past ca- 
reer — all will have something to say. If it should ap- 
pear that we have not said enough, this other victim of 
yours, who believes herself to be your wife, will add her 
testimony. ” 

"That lady is my wife, and she will not add her tes- 
timony; for her own sake she dare not! you can bring no 
charge against me that does not rest upon her too; she 
is my wife — and my accomplice. Be so good as to remem- 
ber that it is she, not I, who succeeded to Ellen Jernyng- 
ham’s fortune.” 

Seeing the web closing hopelessly about him, he can 
yet strike this blow, deliberately, smilingly; the man who 
has called himself E. Percy Jermyn, the son of an English 
noblj, is a fatalist; and in that moment when he encoun- 
tered the mocking, menacing brown eyes of Rufus Carnes 
he has felt that his doom was upon him; that the role 
of haughty reserve, the icy calm, the self-suppression 
that he has studied through ten long years of prison serv- 
itude, and has learned so well, has served him after all 
for but a brief masque, and can do him no better service 


UNMASKED 


010 


how than to hide his rage, his chagrin, the terror and 
loathing with which he faces his fate. But his role has 
been well learned and it serves him to the last. 

“As I wish for mercy here and hereafter!’’ cries the 
woman he has just pronounced his wife, “that man lies! 
I, his accomplice in this murder! At least I am not a 
coward! I wmuld testify against you, poisoner, if I knew 
that my life must pay the penalty; and the only mercy 
I would ask should be, that we might not both hang 
from the same scaffold — understand me, sir? If all I can 
tell, the story of every act and deed of mine, from the 
moment when I first saw^ your wdiite hypocritical face, 
can hasten your punishment, 1 will proclaim it from the 
house-tops if necessary! I have no thought, no wish, no 
intention but to tell ail that I know, to make such rep- 
aration as 1 can. I have told the truth to these gentle- 
men; now say and do your wmrst!’’ 

The two slow policemen, not so slow as when the}^ 
passed under Mr. Jermyn’s eye, are in possession of 
the splendid home w'here Ellen Jernyngham, and after 
her Bertha Warhain, reigned for a brief season. Bertha 
Warham, who, though the wife of the blonde poisoner, 
does not know the name which the law has given her, 
has gone, under the guardianship of Susan, to a hotel. 
In the morning, under the watchful eye of Richard Stan- 
hope, Mr. Jermyn will begin his journey back to New 
Orleans, a fettered prisoner. 

Finding his fate inevitable, he has had, or seemed to 
have, but two anxieties: The first, for the fate of his 
scientific treatise, and the second, for the comfort of his 
person. 

The manuscript he asks permission to take, and puts 
it away in a small writing-case, with a careful hand. 

Then he directs them, and they pack for him, his 


A SLENDER CLUE 


(520 

dressing-case, it must be the ebony one with ivory 
equipments, and such articles of clothing as he desires; 
and, thus prepared, he awaits the beginning of his jour- 
ney with high bred composure. 


CHAPTER LXX 


THREE TESTS 

At last the day has come when Joseph Larsen is to 
emerge from the hospital for the insane, and take his 
place in the world again. It is more than a week since 
he was pronounced sane, but reasons, pretexts, have 
been found for keeping him within the walls until 
Rufus Carnes shall be ready to take personal super- 
vision of his future. 

During this week of his sanity the physician in 
charge has applied various tests, acting upon hints given 
by Cg,rnes, and Larsen has stood them heroically. Susan, 
that invaluable helper in emergencies, has been the 
medium for some of these tests; she is the first visitor 
whom Larsen is permitted to see, and, once in her life, 
for a purpose, and with considerable effort, be it said, 
she is garrulous. She recalls to him the events that 
])receded his loss of reason, she talks volubly of Mrs. 
Warbam’s murder, and pronounces maledictions upon 
her assassin. 

Larsen remembers it all; declares himself ready to 
offer a large reward for the arrest of the villain, as soon 
as he shall come into possession of his heritage, and 
then gruffly tells her to hold her tongue on that" sub- 
ject. 

He also admits for her consideration the suggestion 
that she has become crack-brained, and hints that she 
might remain in the asylum as his successor, with profit 
to herself. 


621 


G23 


A SLENDER CLUE 


This is the first test, and it succeeds — and fails: 
succeeds in convincing the doctors that Larsen’s 
brain has indeed returned to its normal condition, and 
may be trusted to do its own thinking; and fails, in 
that it assures Carnes that, with returning reason, cau- 
tion, and not remorse, is predominant. 

The next day Susan comes again, and the next test is 
applied. She tells him, with lavish and ingenious de- 
tail, that a certain Charlie Jinkins has been arrested with 
jewels belonging to Mrs. Warham in his possession; 
that he is now lying in prison awaiting his trial, and 
that his case looks a hopeless one. He betrays consid- 
erable interest in this story, and roughly asks her why 
she did not tell him this at once. * To which Susan 
replies that she feared to excite him — that naturally it 
would excite him — at which he flies into a rage and de- 
clares that they must let him out at once; he means to 
help prosecute this fellow. 

Hearing this the doctor and Carnes, who are concealed 
listeners at each interview, exchange glances, and 
the one smiles, while the other grinds his teeth. 

This experiment, like the first, is a success and a fail- 
ure. 

It is noticeable however that from this interview 
dates his impatience at their delayed “processes," his 
anxiety to be out in the world. Until this second visit 
from Susan he has manifested no uneasiness, has been 
stolidly indifferent, scarcely inquiring into their reasons 
for the delay. \ 

And then comes Susan’s third visit, and the third and 
last test. 

She tells him that Bertha Warham’ s. dead body has 
been found in New Orleans, brought home, and buried 
in Upton cen:etery 

Then a change comes over him; an excitement that al- 


THREE TESTS 


(m 

most overmasters him; but it is not the excitement of 
grief; it is not a sign of returning madness; it is as sane 
as love turned to bitterness, jealousy at rest, suspense 
merged into certainty, can ever be in a man like Larsen. 

He says it openly: he is glad she is dead; she had bet- 
ter, ten thousand times better, be dead than alive to 
torture him, to flout him, to drive him mad again. Now, 
at least he can stand by her- grave and know that he is 
as near to her as any other man can ever be. He is quite 
unreserved with Susan ; why not? does she not know the 
history of his hopeless infatuation? It is a relief to speak 
as he feels. 

Again the unseen listeners, Carnes and the doctor, ex- 
change meaning glances; again the one smiles, the other 
frowns, but on this occasion the smile and the frown 
are reversed. 

Whether this experiment is a success or a failure, or 
both, neither seems quite prepared to say. 

"There," says the doctor, when Susan has made a per- 
manent retreat, after receiving the hearty thanks and 
praises of the bluff detective; "There is the key to the 
situation. The mere name of this girl has more power to 
move him than all the horrors of memory, all the pangs 
of remorse. In fact the fellow’s fancy for this girl has 
absorbed and eaten out all other sensibilities." The doc- 
tor has been now for some days in full possession of the 
strange story that has woven itself about Larsen and 
Bertha Warham, and all our other actors in it. "Look 
at it! do you think the man’s stolidity, when the facts of 
that murder were rehearsed for his benefit, and to refresh 
his memory, was actual self-control? No sir. No sir; 
he has no more sense of the enormity of his crime, than 
if he were a tiger and that woman his lawful prey." 

"And yet you call him restored— a sane man?" 

"Just as sane as the tiger in his jungle; each is 


G24 


A SLENDER CLUE 


true to his instinct. Sane! If brutality were insanity, 
we would not have enough sane men left to transact 
the world^s business and go to congress. Perhaps you 
think the fellow does not fully realize the hideousne«s of 
his position relative to that poor fellow you call Jin- 
kins! What does he care for Jinkins! Jinkins’ danger is 
his safety. He would see Jinkins hung for his crime 
with secret satisfaction, and go home and sleep after it 
better than he slept before. It would be, to him, his 
first night of absolute safety. No sir, on these two 
points he is as callous as the beast of the field; the only 
thing that can drive him out of himself, beyond himself, 
now, is this girl whom he thinks dead; and s/ie might 
even drive him back into insanity." 

"By Jove!” ejaculates Carnes, and he slaps his hand 
lustily upon his knee. 

"What now?" 

"Nothing — only two heads are better than one!" 

“May I ask what you mean to do with this reptile, 
now that you have got him? He is in your hands from 
this moment; Pm glad to wash mine of him.” 

"Clap him into prison straight. Accuse him of his 
crime. Let him see that we know all about it. Present 
our evidence to Sharp and try to make him hold his 
hand; make a counter-case of it. Try to wring a confes- 
sion from Larsen; confront Jinkins or Jemyngham with 
his friends; compel him to take control of his sister’s 
fortune — it comes to him by her will — and to make a 
stand for himself; that’s our program as far as ar- 
ranged. " 

"And if that fails?" 

"If that fails — you have given me a hint upon which I 
shall act." 


CHAPTER LXXI 


HIMSELF AGAIN 

"Some visitors to see you, Jinkins!” Charlie Jinkins 
lifts his head from his hand — he is always sitting thus 
now, except for the half-hour when he listlessly peruses 
the morning papers, or when his jailor serves him with 
his meals. 

The long months of his confinement, added to his 
sickness, have left him very wan, and weak, and gentle; 
pathetically patient; only lighting up a very little when 
Circus Fan, of late almost his only visitor, appears, to 
sit with him for half an hour, and rally and pity him 
by turns. 

The visitors who enter now are both strangers to him, 
and he looks mildly up into their faces, and wonders 
vaguely why they are here. 

They are pleasant visitors to see — the one a handsome, 
frank-faced young man, and the other a lady, young, 
lovely, and with eyes brimming with compassion. 

"Jernyngham, my dear boy,” the young man says, 
"how glad I am to see you — and how sorry to see you 
here? Have you forgotten Ken Baring?" 

- "Ken Baring!” what long-forgotten memories stir 
the heart of the poor, pale prisoner! what strange new 
sensations spring into life! — recognition, rebellion, hope, 
shame. One glance — yes, they are the same frank eyes 
that he knew in such different days; it is the same 
kindly voice and smile; the head ©f the hapless fellow 

625 


G2G 


A SLENDER CLUE 


falls forward upon his arms, and sobs, pitiful to hear, 
shake his thin frame. 

“This is harder," he tliinks when he can think at all, 
“more humiliating, more bitter, than all the rest! Ken- 
neth Baring, the friend of his prosperity, to see him 
thus! ’’ 

Presently a hand is laid upon his head, not a man’s 
hand surely — a softer, tenderer touch; and then a voice 

— a sweet, pitying, womanly voice, speaks to him; he 
closes his eyes; he can even fancy that he is dead, and 
in the presence of pitying angels. 

But it is a practical woman who is saying soothingly: 

- “Mr. Jernyngham, pray do not be distressed. I fear 
my husband has startled you in his eagerness. Try to 
be calm ; your friends have found you out, and you have 
much to hope for." 

Much to hope for — he? But the soothing touch lingers 
upon his head, the musical voice chimes on, uttering 
soft gentle words of comfort and hope, and presently the 
sobs die away, the shoulders cease to heave — he becomes 
calmer, and listens, still with his head bent. " 

It is a dream, of course, but it is such a pleasant 
dream; he is in no haste to waken. 

Then the other voice speaks again, cheery, sensible 
words, and a new life seems stirring within him — a soul 
he has long thought dead, the soul of Carl Jernyngham, 
as it lived within him before he became so fallen, so 
hopeless, so hapless; before he became a wanderer, an 
outcast — before he became drunken Charlie Jinkins — 
awakened. 

The words that now fall upon his ears are very pleas- 
ant words; and the voice is a very pleasant voice; but 
it is not the masculine voice — explain it who can; 
seldom is it so very suggestive of an angelic visitant. 
Perhaps after all he is, not dreaming. 


* 



PRESENTLY A HAND IS LAID UPON lIIS HEAD.— Slender Clue, p. 020. 










HIMSELF HGAIN 


627 


By and by he ventures to lift his head; and it is not 
the head of Charlie Jinkins, it is Carl Jernyngham 
rehabilitated. Then he is vaguely conscious of two 
firm hands grasping his own, and hears dreamily that 
JBaring knows all of his trials, and still hopes; that he 
congratulates him, condoles with him, plans for him, 
and intends to work for him ; that the lovely woman 
with the soothing hand, is a flesh-and- blood woman, who 
can laugh like music, and smile seraphically ; that she 
is Baring^s wife, and his friend, whether he will or no. 

Then there is talk of his sister, and he hears that Mrs. 
Baring knew her, and that she is dead; and while he is 
vaguely conscious that he ought to be grief-smitten, 
and yet is only slightly touched, the talk is interrupted, 
and a worldly, oh! a very worldly voice, although it is 
cheery, and pleasant, and reassuring, sounds from the 
doorway; and he sees a big, broad shouldered, smiling 
man standing therein. 

“Well,” this new presence says, “have you brought 
him to his senses?” 

Then Carl Jernyngham starts up. Is he dreaming after 
all? that voice is as familiar as if he had heard it only 
yesterday. *The face, too! He looks closer, looks again. 
“The rector,” he stammers, new light breaking upon 
him. 

Baring laughs heartily. 

“No more a rector than I am,” he says. “That man 
is Detective Carnes, Jernyngham. You didn’t stand 
much chance against him old fellow; but he does insist 
that he made a most respectable dominie." 

“I did,” asserts Carnes stoutly, “didn’t I, Jernyng- 
ham?” 

The appearance of this broad-shouldered, sharp-tongued 
detective convinces him at last. It is not a dream; all 
this strangeness is true, all these surprises are real. 

42 


G28 


A SLENDER CLUE 


Carl Jernyngham sits down again, and then Baring^ s 
pretty wife appropriates the only remaining chair, while 
his two masculine visitors content themselves with a 
seat upon his hard bed, and they talk, make explana- 
tions, clear away mysteries, lay plans. 

When at last they are gone, and Carl Jernyngham is 
alone in his cell again, it is full of sunshine; there is a 
rose upon the rude table at his elbow, and hope is sing- 
ing in his heart. 

While he is thinking over the wonderful happenings 
of the morning, another visitor is ushered in. It is Cir- 
cus Fan. There are red rims about her eyes, but there 
is a queer twinkle, that is anything but an indication of 
sorrow, lurking within them. 

"Well, Charlie Jinkins, ” she says with prompt cheer- 
fulness, "and how do you find yourself to-day?’’ 

"Fan!" he is on his feet and is holding both her 
hands, not beautiful hands, by the way — and not too 
clean. "Fs-n you have been my friend from the first! — 
through all my dark days. I have had a strange dream, 
a lovely dream ; and if it ever comes true, you shall 
profit by it, be sure. You were the first to call me Charlie 
Jinkins, werenU you, Fan? and I am glad that you can 
be the last. I’m glad to introduce myself to you before 
another has tlie chance. You haven’t asked about my 
real name for some time. Fan." 

Fan draws back, and her voice quavers a little. "What 
is it, Charlie?" 

"It’s Carl Jernyngham." 

"My! C. J.— well I got the initials all right didn’t I — 
Mr. Jernyngham?" 

She is half-crying, half-laughing, and he makes a sud- 
den clutch at her sleeve. 

"Fan, you have seen them, you know—" 

"Seen w/io, Mr. Jernyngham?" 


HIMSELF AGHJN 


()•?:) 

“Seen Baring, and his wife, and the detective?” 

"The detective! Oh, Charlie Jinkins — I mean — Mr. 
Jernyngham, I’ve been hand and glove with that detect- 
ive for monihs. It was him that set me at you to try 
and make you tell your true name. I never should have 
had the heart to torment 3^ou so if I hadn’t hoped that 
you would be the gainer in the end. My! but didn’t 
he make a splendid parson!” 

“And the others, Fan?” 

"Oh! I never saw ihejn, until yesterday. Charlie — 
there. I’ve done it again — it’s my opinion that Mrs. Ba- 
ring is just a little angel!” 

"That’s precisely what I thought,” says Jernyngham, 
and tears spring to his eyes. 

On the morning of the next day, Carl Jernyngham is 
again visited by Carnes and Kenneth Baring, for there 
are many things to be discussed and details given of 
things only touched upon in their previous interviews. 

In the afternoon he has yet other callers — brave, 
kindl}^ Rene Baring, and Bertha Warham, the woman 
who has worn his sister’s name, and usurped her place. 
They are accompanied to the door of the cell by Ken- 
neth Baring, but here he leaves them and they enter 
alone. 

Bertha Warham’s first act has been to restore her 
blonde locks, by removing the hated dye that had been 
necessary to complete her likeness to Ellen Jernyngham; 
and in this effort she has sacrificed the long luxuriant 
coils of hair that once were her pride and glory, and 
now with short golden rings curling all about her head, 
with her pale face, and new look of humility, Bertha 
Warham is a fairer vision than even the one which 
escaped from Joseph Larsen, in that same city, and near 
that same spot long months before. 


630 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Mr. Jernyngham, ’’ says Rene Baring gently, this is 
Bertha Warbam. She wishes very much to hear that 
you are not her enemy." 

"I am not her enemy," he replies. "My hate is all 
bestowed upon the man whose sin shut me rp here, and 
upon my sister’s murderer. Miss Warham, it seems to 
me, has been sinned against, has been a victim almost as 
much as poor Ellen. Miss Warham, if I can ever prove 
to you that my words are sincere, if I can in any way 
help to make your unhappy position less unhappy, I 
shall be glad to prove to you that I bear you no ill will." 

"Your words have convinced me of that, Mr. Jernyng- 
ham," Bertha says in a low voice, "and I thank you. I 
came to restore to you something that is yours. It is 
your sister’s will. It was made before she set out on 
that fatal journey South, and left in the hands of her 
lawyers — not the old Philadelphia firm, who had trans- 
acted the business of the estate for your father in his 
life-time — but a “'New York firm, chosen by Mr. Jermyn 
after their removal to that city. They were honorable 
men, for he dared not choose others. On board the steam- 
er, coming up from New Orleans, he put into my hands 
your sister’s journals; from them I learned where her 
will was to be found, and the first time I went out 
alone I went to that ofifice, of course in the character of 
Mrs. Jermyn, and asked them to give me that document, 
and to make an exact copy which they might deliver 
into Mr. Jermyn’s hands should he call for it. I then 
secured a box in a reliable savings bank, and made sure 
of the will by depositing it there, together with some 
trinkets and a small sum of my own money. Before 
long Mr. Jermyn, as I had anticipated, proposed that 
this will be destroyed, and a new one made — in his 
favor, of course. I agreed and went with him to get the 
second will, the copy, from the lawyer’s. I suppose they 


HlMSELh^ AGAIN 


631 


drew their own inferences from our conduct; but what 
the}*' thought gave me little trouble. I put off the new 
will from time to time, and, when evasion would no 
longer serve, told Mr.*Jermyn that I should feel more 
comfortable not to forge a will, until we had become 
better acquainted. I had feared' him, in secret, from the 
moment when I took the last irrevocable step, and put 
myself thus so ^entirely in his power. Take the will, 
Mr. Jernyngham, the time will soon come when you will 
be free to possess your sister^ s estates, and then you 
will hear from me again. There is )^et restitution to 
be made; my father is wealthy, and I am only too sure 
of forgiveness and a welcome from him. I shall ask him 
to help me pay the debt I owe io you, at least.” 

She is speaking with all sincerity. To do Bertha 
Warham justice, her one thought, at this moment, is to 
undo, where she can, the wrong she has done. She is 
waiting now for a message from Susan, who, having per- 
formed her part in the experiment upon Joseph Larsen, 
has gone back to Upton, to break to the lonely sick old 
man the news that his daughter Bertha is not lying in 
the Upton graveyard after all. 

‘‘Your sister’s journals,” Bertha resumes, ‘‘are in the 
hands of Mr. Stanhope and Carnes; they hold them for 
use, if necessary, when that murderer comes to trial; 
after that they will be restored to you, and — Mr. Jernyng- 
ham, Joseph Larsen will confess his crime soon. I am 
sure of it — so sure that I am not afraid to offer you my 
congratulations now, and to wish you a long and peace- 
ful life.” 

As she ceases, he advances quickly and extends his 
hand; and she, with a surprised upward glance, places 
her own within it and murmuring ‘‘Good-bye, and thank 
you, Mr. Jernyngham,” she hurries from the cell, leaving 
Rene to utter an astonished and hasty adieu, and to fol- 
low as best she can. 


CHAPTER LXXII 


THE LAST CARD 

The days foP.ow each other as summer days will, and 
the time Tor "Charley Jinkins’’’ trial is close at hand, in 
spite of the "counter case," in spite of everything that 
Carnes and Stanhope and a brace of astute lawyers can 
do. 

Joseph Larsen has regained his liberty only to lose it 
again; has gone from his cell in the mad-house to a cell 
in prison, charged with the murder of Lucretia War- 
ham; and Carnes has labored mightily to wring from him 
a confession of the crime, but to no purpose. Larsen 
is wrathful, defiant, obstinate; on the subject of the 
murder he is dumb. 

In vain Carnes traces for him his course, up to the very 
night of the crime; shows him how he has been watched;, 
recounts to him all the discoveries made by Patsy, who 
now, as ever, is Carnes’ stanchest henchman, and stands 
ready to testify to the extent of his knowledge. Larsen 
is obdurate. He will confess nothing; he has nothing to 
confess. They may keep him a prisoner if they will; it is 
nothing to him to be a prisoner; when they have hanged 
the other fellow, the murderer, they will have to release 
him. His stolid indifference, his bravado is maddening, 
and Rufus Carnes, burning with indignation, goes away 
each day after a fruitless interview, feeling a growing 
desire to fly at his throat and throttle the truth from 
between his lips. 

Stanhope, since his return from New Orleans, has not 

032 


THB L,^ST CARD 


033 


been near Larsen. He has not seen him since the nignt, 
very long ago it seems to him, since he consigned him, a 
gibbering mouthing, madman, to the tender mercies of 
the mad-house. But at length the day comes when 
Carnes says to him : 

"It’s of no use, Dick; time’s growing short; we must 
play our last card. " 

"It will win," says Stanhope. 

"I don’t know, Dick, I don’ t know. I’m beginning to 
be superstitious about that fellow; he’s my old man of 
the sea. I’ve hated him from the first, yes, from the 
moment I set eyes on him at the theater, where Martin 
pointed him out. It’s been agrowing hatred; and of late 
there are moments when I dread the feliow; sometimes 
the sight of him sets me into a creeping chill. Ugh!" 

"Look here. Carnes, this won’t do, you know. You al- 
ways had a vein of old woman in you, that I never was 
able to account for, unless it is because you are one of 
those people who have no medium for anything — you 
have no simple likes and dislikes, no aversions and at- 
tractions, you must love or loathe a person. A thing to 
you, is perfect or it is hideous, and you know you are 
superstitious. " 

"Do you mean that I look for the moon over my right 
shoulder, turn my tea-cup for luck, and stay at home on 
Friday? ’’ 

"Well, no, not quite so bad as that. You are super- 
stitious about sensations; you see visions, and dream 
dreams." 

"So did the prophets of old— a very respectable body 
of men, as you would know if you would take the trouble 
to peruse that splendid piece of ancient history called 
the Bible. I dream dreams? yes. I dreamed one last 
night. I have dreamed the same thing, or nearly the 
same, twice before." 


634 


A SLENDER CLUE 


"Tell it," says Stanhope with a light laugh. 'Tell it, 
and break the spell." 

"Will that break it? well, maybe you wouldn’t call it 
a dream; it was a picture, or vision, rather. I was stand- 
ing on the top of a globe or ball." 

‘’North Pole?" suggests Stanhope. 

"Possibly. But I don’t remember it’s being cold there, 
for instantly I felt a mighty push in the rear, and turned 
my head as I began to fall, to see Larsen’s face, all 
flecked with foam ; as I went down I heard him laugh, 
and then from below the laugh was answered, and I saw 
the face of ^Number 46’ receding, but always before me, 
as I sank through space." 

"Upon my word, that was worthy of a dyspeptic. 
You must curb your appetite, Carnes." 

A few moments later, Carnes, as careless and whimsical 
as usual, was making sundry preparations for the playing 
of that "last card," while Stanhope, standing at the win- 
dow of the nearest telegraph office, sent to Bertha War- 
ham a message containing a single word: "Come." 

He is not a prepossessing figure as he rolls over upon 
his couch, with a snarl at the intrusion, and shows to 
his visitor a hideous growth of bushy black beard, two 
sullen, cavernous eyes overhung by thick black brows that 
almost meet above his large nose, a sallow, haggard 
breadth of brow and cheek, showing more sallow by con- 
trast with the thick, unkempt, overhanging locks; untidy 
in his dress, stooping more than ever, and slouching in 
gait as he. walks the narrow width of his ceil, Joseph 
Larsen is as unlovely as his life. 

"You again!" he says it gruffly, as his eyes fall upon 
Carnes in the doorway, and then, as Carnes steps aside 
and he sees the figure behind him, he starts up and ut- 
ters an imprecation, then sinks back upon his couch, 


THE LAST CARD 


g:'35 

and his sallow face becomes livid; whether it is with 
fear or rage they cannot tell. . 

Carnes is smiling and inconsequent of manner, but 
Stanhope^ s face is set and stern — it is the face that 
looked down upon him as he lay, felled by a strong 
hand, in John Warham^s kitchen— it is the face that 
looked him down, cowed him, and gave him into the 
custody of the sheriff, later — it was the last face he saw 
before reason forsook him in Warham^s. darkened parlor, 
beside the encoffined body of his murdered mother. 
Truly, in planning for just such an emergency as this 
of the present, they have been wiser than they knew. Al- 
ready their work is half-accomplished; memory, not dead 
but stunned, or only half-wakened, is pricked, as by a 
spur, at sight of this strong, stern, manly young fellow 
standing erect before him, looking down upon him with a 
fearless gaze, that he knows will not flinch before his 
foulest imprecation, his wildest fury. 

Instinctively he throws out his hand as if to ward or 
warn him off. 

“So," says the deep full voice of Stanhope, “sol have 
got to do this over again — assassin, you are not sat- 
isfied yet; you want to shift the burden of your sin up- 
on innocent shoulders; you want to commit another 
murder. Fool! don’t you know that you have never been 
out of my sight? Do you think I will ever let you out 
of my sight, until I have you upon the gallows, with a 
rope around your neck? What can you do out in the 
world, a man with the blood of his mother upon his 
hands? Do you think we cannot see it? Do you think 
the whole world cannot see it?” 

Involuntarily the cowering wretch moves his hands as 
if to conceal them, and looks down upon them quickly. 

Seeing his success the young detective goes on. 

“Do you think that you can go among honest men, and 


A SLENDER CLUE 


look them in the face, and declare your innocence? Try 
it. Look me in the face!” 

The tortured creature writhes, makes a mighty effort, 
looks up, and drops his eyes again quickly, leaps to his 
feet, roars out a volley of oaths, and seems about to spring 
upon his inquisitor. An instant, he is held by the keen 
eye, then he does spring, hissing like a serpent, directly 
at Stanhope’s throat. 

But it is his own throat that is clutched in a grasp of 
steel, and he is forced back to his place, upon the side 
of the couch, the piercing eyes never letting go their hold 
upon his. 

"D&n’t try that again, Larsen,” Stanhope says scorn- 
fully. “It won’t do you any good. Pull yourself togeth- 
er; try to look a little less like a wild animal, and listen 
to me: Before Carl Jernyngham is brought to trial you 
are going to make a full confession in the presence of a 
notary; just as you did at John Warham’s. ” 

'T won’t — you lie." 

"You think 'you won’t, but you will. I won’t trouble 
you to begin at the beginning this time. You needn’t tell 
about your peregrinations among the hackdrivers, and 
street-stalls; nor about your changes of hotel, and vis- 
its to all the theaters; you were looking for Bertha 
Warham then. Just begin with the day you met Mrs. 
Warham on the street, and put her into the carriage and 
drove about with her, while you talked matters over; 
tell of your meeting the next day, when she told you 
that she had left you all her money. Tell how you 
planned to decoy her out on Saturday night, how you 
were enraged because she told you that if you did not 
give up your senseless search for Bertha she would alter 
her will; how she told you that Bertha had never cared 
for you, and goaded you on until you persuaded her, by 
lies, into going with you into that deserted street where 
you killed her, and dragged her body into an alley.” 


THE LAST CARD 


G37 


A shudder agitates the big frame crouching now up- 
on the couch, then he gathers himself again for resistance. 

"I will tell nothing!” he'fairly yells. “I have nothing 
to tell! what do I care for you — for any one!” 

"You will confess! I will call the dead from their 
graves to force the truth from you!" 

Even as he speaks the door swings slowly open, and 
Bertha Warham stands in the doorway. She stands in 
the shadow, pale and stern, robed in some light gray gar- 
ment, and never more beautiful than now, with her 
wealth of short clustering hair, and her glowing, menac- 
ing eyes. 

Larsen staggers up, and stretches out his arms. "Ber- 
tha!” he gasps. "My God — Bertha!" 

"Tell the truth, Joseph Larsen,” she says sternly. “Tell 
it, or your dead mother will come out of her grave to de- 
nounce you. ” 

"Oh!” he cries; "Bertha! Bertha!" and his pallor be- 
comes deadly. 

"Murderer!" she says again, "tell the truth!” 

It is enough — he no longer sees the others about him. 
He sees only that pale avenging face. 

"I did it!” he cries hoarsely, “I killed her! I killed her! 
because — ” It ends there. He falls forward, and Carnes 
and Stanhope catch him and place'him upon the couch. 

When he again opens his eyes, she is standing at the 
foot of the couch; there are others there, Carnes, Stan- 
hope, a doctor and a notary at a little table near the 
grated window; it is nearly twilight, and the cell is grow- 
ing dim. 

^"Tell the truth," Bertha says again, and, little heeding 
whether she is flesh or spirit, the tortured wretch, doubly 
tortured, from without and from within, gives up his 
hideous secret, and the notary by the darkening window 
rapidly pens the confession that is to set Carl Jernyng- 
ham free, and proclaim him innocent. * 


CHAPTER LXXIII 


PRACTICALLY SETTLED 

Whether his energies have become lessened, and his 
mental powers somewhat relaxed in his southern prison, 
or whether he has lost a portion of the enthusiasm which 
he expended upon his scientific treatise, on the day — his 
last day in New York — when he announced to Mrs. Jer- 
myn his intentions to complete that important work 
within the week, it is not easy to say. Certain it is, 
however, that weeks have passed and the treatise is not 
yet finished. 

It lies before him upon his table, one sultry afternoon, 
and he lays aside his pen reluctantly, to welcome his law- 
yer who enters, mopping a perspiring brow, and looking 
morose. 

"Well," says Mr. Jermyn, pushing back his chair and 
rising, "you find it uncomfortable work?” and he pre- 
sents his own chair, the most comfortable of the two in 
the cell, and seats himself in the other. 

"Uncomfortable ! Yes, and deuced unpleasant. Man, 

I wonder at your coolness. " Mr. Jermyn smiles, his old 
superior smile. 

"I have turned your case over thoroughly as you . 
asked. — " 

"And — as I asked, are you prepared to give me your- 
candid opinion?" 

"Yes, and glad to ease my mind — Jermyn, we haven^t 
a leg to stand on!" 

"You mean that the jury won’t acquit me." 

- • 638 


PR/iCTICALLY SETTLED 


630 


"I mean they can't acquit you, not even if they were 
more gullible, more open to bribery, and all the other 
tricks, than they, or any other jury, will be sure to be. 
You don’t know those two detectives, confound them, 
have hunted you up and down, traced your ins and oiits? 
they haven’t left you a loop-hole; and you fixed things 
cleverly too. You didn’t bungle And that wife of yoiirs 
— a nice wife she — I wrote her — ” 

“I told you that it would be useless.” 

“Yes. ■ I know you did; useless! listen to this!” 

He takes a letter from his pocket, opens it rapidly, 
snaps a pair of glasses upon his nose and reads; 

“Dear Sir, etc., etc. 

“In answer to your appeal in behalf of the man 
whom you call Jermyn, I have only to say that he is my 
husband in law, not in love; and that I shall ‘appear 
against him,’ if called upon to do so, with no more 
compunction than I would feel in testifying against a 
stranger assassin. I have nothing more to say, and no 
message to send your client. Bertha Warham. " 

“There! there’s one woman who can make herself 
understood! Well, sir, in my opinion this letter settles 
it. ” 

“You think it’s a hopeless case, then?" 

“I do. Of course I shall carry it out — game to the 
last. And I know you're game enough. But— yes, sir, 
it's practically settled." 

Jermyn makes no comment ; he seems to dismiss the 
subject with a move of the hand; he draws his chair 
toward the table, and begins to arrange the manuscript. 

“Is it finished?" asks the lawyer, glad to turn from a 
disagreeable subject. 

“Half an hour’s work will finish it." 

When the lawyer is gone he resumes the pen, and dips 


640 


A SLENDER CLUE 


it again in the ink; scratch, scratch, it goes steadily for 
four, five, ten minutes; then he looks up, lifts his hand 
to his head, sits thus for a moment, and takes up the 
pen again. Again it travels across a line or two, but 
not so steadily this time. He puts it down once more, 
and, rising, walks about the little room. 

Then for the third time he takes up his pen; there are 
only a few more words to write. Only a page or two; 
but the words will not come. 

He drops the pen for the last time, pushes away his 
chair, stands silent and moveless for a moment, his cold 
blue eyes looking away into space, and then goes to a 
trunk in the corner, lifts its lid, and takes from it a 
small square ebony dressing-case. He carries this to 
the table and opens it. 

One by one he takes out the dainty ivory-mounted 
appointments, fingering each article slowly. Then, he 
lifts out a velvet-lined tray and l6oks into the bottom of 
the dressing case, also velvet-lined; upon this velvet 
lining, near the center, he presses one forefinger, and 
half of a false bottom rises up, like the lid of a box, dis- 
playing a shallow receptacle, which contains a tiny pistol, 
a small, keen-edged knife, two or three tiny vials, and a 
little steel cylinder with some brightly glittering needles 
lying beside it. . One of these he takes up, fits it to the 
steel instrument, and then, quickly uncorking one of the 
small vials, he draws half of the liquid it contains into 
the little syringe; a part of this he now carefully ejects,, 
then puts down the instrument to bare his arm, and 
now he is ready for his work. 

It is nothing after all, only the prick of a needle as 
its point is forced under the white skin. Then he drops 
the instrument back into its hiding-place, pushes down 
the false bottom, pulls down his sleeve and replaces ii's 
cuff with a steady hand. 


Pk/lCriCALLY SETTLED 


()4l 


He goes back to the table now, and fingers the manu- 
script restlessly. He even sits down and takes up the 
pen — then — how many moments does he sit there? he 
seems to be listening; he is watching his own sensations ; 
now th^ pen drops from his fingers — a horrible light 
gleams up in his eye, then dies away to dullness; he 
half-staggers to his feet, drops back again, and his 
head falls forward upon the table. 

In a few moments the guard looks through the grat- 
ing of his door, sees something in his attitude that 
startles him, and gives the alarm. 

Too late. “Number 46,’’ ex-convict, poisoner, advent- 
urer, he who through ten years of prison life has 
schooled a naturally cold, reticent nature to perfect self- 
repression, self-control, that he may wrest from the 
world that which it has grudged him, and make good to 
himself ten years, in which he might have wrought 
evil upon his fellows — "number 4-6’’ has gone the cow- 
ard^s road, by the coward\s easiest, softest, most cow- 
ardly conveyance, over to the majority. 


CHAPTER LXXIV 

FINIS 

For full forty-eight hours after his confession is 
signed, sealed and handed over to the proper officers, 
Joseph Larsen is, to all appearances, as rational as 
any one about him; sullen, but he is always that; sit- 
ting in one posture for hours, but eating, and answer- 
ing questions, when he deigns to answer them at all, 
quite like anyone else, or rather, like his natural self. 

But on the morning of the third day, when they look 
into his cell, there is a change evident; he is mad again; 
madder, indeed, than ever; too mad to remain in a 
prison cell ; and so, after the necessary preliminaries 
are observed, Carnes and Stanhope undertake to convey 
him in safety back to his former cell, and former 
straight-jacket, in the mad-house. 

He is in one of his quiet moods when they set out, 
but for all that, his hands are locked in handcuffs, and 
his guardians are prepared and keenly on the watch for 
any resistance. 

He is so haggard, so unkempt, so evidently a mad- 
man, that they seat him and themselves in the smoker’s 
car lest he should break into one of his sudden furies 
and so alarm some gentle female passenger. But they 
have not been long seated when an unforseen conire- 
temj>s occurs: at a small station another patient, as mad 
as Larsen, and at the moment far more boisterous, is 
dragged on board, yelling and clanking his chains. 

The sight rouses Larsen, and their first remonstrance 
042 



“Oil HIDEOUS SIGHT, THEY ALL (io DOWN. '-Slender Clue, p. 013. 
43 







FINIS 


643 


and attempt to soothe him, goad him to fury. The 
car becomes. a pandemonium. 

They must be separated, the conductor says; the one 
simply urges on and exasperates the other. One must 
go forward. He hurries away, and presently comes 
back; he has vacated a place for them in the rear end 
of the next car, and it is Larsen who must move on, 
for he is eager to go, while the other will only be 
dragged. 

The train is moving swiftly through a lovely country, 
and Larsen Walks steadily forward, Carnes going before 
him, and Stanhope behind, with a hand firmly gripped 
upon his shoulder. Steadily and quietly the madman 
walks through the car, and neither of his two captors 
can see the lurid light in the eyes that glower upon 
Carnes, as he goes before. Steadily he goes out 
through the door, the hand tightening upon his 
shoulder. Steadily he steps across the narrow space 
between the two platforms, steadily, with his head 
bent; then swiftly, as Carnes opens the forward 
door, and turns, the two long arms bound together at 
the wrists are lifted high in the air and descend, like a 
hoop, around the shoulders of his victim; instantly the 
willing brakeman, who has flattened himself against the 
side of the car, springs forward to the rescue; instantly 
Stanhope^ s grip upon the madman tightens. It is too 
late; for one moment the madman puts forth the 
strength of a giant, as madmen will; then — oh, hideous 
sight! they all go down— Carnes, Larsen, Stanhope! 
The brakeman, fearless, honest fellow that he is, tot- 
ters, grips at an iron bar, and throws out his other hand 
in a vain clutch after Stanhope; not altogether vain, 
for he grasps him — holds him thus for a moment, but 
the weight is too great. When the train is brought to a 
stop — for the scene is witnessed through two open doors, 


644 


A SLENDER CLUE 


and the bell is wildly rung by a score of hands — the gal- 
lant brakeman is swinging by one arm, bruised, half- 
senseless and with the shoulder — which for a horrible 
moment had held the swaying body of the young detect- 
ive — dislocated. Stanhope, Larsen, Carnes, are lying in 
a senseless heap in the gorge below. 

Stanhope recovers soon, and staggers to his feet; 
he limps frightfully, and is sore with bruises., Out the 
brave brakeman has softened his fall, has saved his life. 
He has fallen atop of the others, too, and, without a 
thought for his own aches, he calls upon Carnes to an- 
swer him, and then groans aloud. 

They are locked together still; the madman’s clutch 
is not relaxed; his face is bloodless and foam-flecked, his 
eyes are wildly staring — but Carnes — he lies under- 
most, among briers and sharp stones, and when they lift 
him, the blood oozes from a ghastly wound upon his 
head. 

There he lies, the brave, generous, tender-hearted 
friend; the fearless detective, the man so full of quaint 
eccentricities, and yet so lovable; his work is done. 

Only once is he conscious, as he lies under the nearest 
roof, that of a sympathetic, hospitable farmer, where 
every care, every attention is lavished upon him. Only 
once does he speak, and then, as he opens his eyes, and 
sees Stanhope’s sorrowful face bent above him, it is to 
him that he murmurs: 

“Dick, old fellow — it had to be; it is all right — God 
bless you, Dick — there is something for you in Somer’s 
safe at the old hotel; he’ll give it to you — it’s the only 
thing of mine that you’ll care to have,” and then again 
groping feebly for his friend’s hand — “God bless you, 
Dick!” 

They are his last words, and when the last breath had. 
fluttered feebly past his lips, Richard Stanhope bows 


FINIS 


645 


his head and weeps for his truest, best-beloved friend. 

His death is almost painless. He has no friends, no 
relative, in all the world; and when Bertha Warham 
comes with Susan, and begs that he may betaken to Up- 
ton and buried there under the whispering trees in the 
pretty cemetery where Ellen Jernyngham and Mrs. War- 
ham are lying, Stanhope does not refuse. 

"He will have at least two friends near,” Bertha says 
sadly, “so long as Susan lives and as I live, there’ll be 
some one to care for his grave.” 

"A strange whim of Bertha Warham’ s,” Kenneth Bar- 
ing says to his wife, when they go together to stand be- 
side this newly made grave. But Rene looks up through 
tearful eyes and says: 

“Don’t you understand, Ken? she admired and respect- 
ed him; and then — he was Stanhope’s friend.’ 

But Joseph Larsen— one of the arms that dragged his 
victim down is broken, and he has dislocated a hip; the 
entire body too has come in for its share of bruises, and 
it is impossible to care for him properly. He tears away 
his bandages, curses his attendants, refuses all medicine 
and food, flings his battered frame from the bed to the 
floor, and, yelling with pain and fury, is bound again. 
He is a broken fiend, but a fiend none the less. 

Drugged into quiet, he comes back to consciousness 
with fresh ravings, and so, raving, cursing, rending him- 
self, he lingers through three dismal weeks, and then 
dies horribly, a madman to the last. 

It is early Autumn, and once more there is a bright 
group upon Jacob Baring’s fine lawn, and, so great 
are the changes wrought by time and “the logic of events," 
it is a very harmonious group, although "Aunt Jake” is 
the hostess, and head of the feast, and Kenneth Baring 
and Rene are present— present, too, as guests of honor; 


646 


A SLENDER CLUE 


once more the Sunderland girls are there, and the Rose- 
veldts; Charlie Brian and Lotta are there too, for Lin- 
nett is to be married to-morrow to a splendid young di- 
vine — a par.ty so well known, so tried, so humanly good, 
and socially unexceptionable, that even Aunt Jake can 
find no flaw in him. 

Ellen Jernynghnam is not there, but she is not far 
away. Her grave lies almost within the sound of their 
voices. A shaft of white marble marks it, and fresh 
flowers in their season are always to be found upon it. 

Carl Jernyngahm’s first act, upon entering the world 
again as Carl Jernyngham, has been to bring her here; 
and proud as she may have been, in life, mistaken, un- 
loved and unlovable, there are many who pity her now; 
and no grave in Roseville is oftener visited by pitying 
young souls whom, in her life-time, she might have 
scorned, but who, looking down upon her grassy bed, now 
say softly, tenderly, “Poor, poor Ellen Jernyngham!" 

And now there is a flutter upon the lawn, and two 
anxiously expected guests are coming — Stanhope and 
Carl Jernyngham. 

Everybody welcomes them eagerly, and feminine 
hearts flutter at sight of the frank-faced, good-looking 
young detective, with his free, careless gayety, and his 
cheery smile. 

But Rene soon takes possession of him. 

"I began to fear a disappointment,” she says. "We 
expected you yesterday." 

"We came by a roundabout road," he answers, his face 
growing grave. "Jernyngham and I have been to Upton." 

"Oh! and did you see Bertha?” 

"Yes." 

"Tell me about her. I have thought of her so often. 
I wrote her twice, but her answers were so constrained 
that I did not attempt the third letter. I feared that 


FINIS 


647 


my well-meant attentions might be painful to her.” 

"I don’t know,” Stanhope says thoughtfully. ”I 
think if I were you, I would continue to write her. I 
wish you would; she has had a serious trial, and Susan 
says she has borne ic bravely. To go back there and be- 
gin her life over again in the face of all the country 
curiosity, and village gossip, must have required some 
heroism. And she has made herself the constant com- 
panion and nurse to that failing old man. It was on his 
account principally that I went there just now; al- 
though I should have gone, soon, in any case — I wanted 
to see Carnes’ grave.” 

”Ah! that noble life! To think that it should have 
ended so! ”, 

”Yes. It is the fate of more than one fine fellow, skill- 
ful and fearless, to die so. But the world does not think 
of that phase of a* detective’s life. It applauds our 
exploits, and knows little of our graves, and how we 
come to them. I have seen more than one life wiped out 
as quickly. Poor Carnes! no one can miss him as I do, 
for no one knew him so well. Do you remember the 
legacy he left me?" 

"The packet in the care of his landlord in Chicago?” 

"Yes. It was a large journal, or rather, the story of his 
life. You know his past was always a mystery to us all; 
he never alluded to it, and no one dared or would ques- 
tion him. What a strange story it was! and how it ex- 
plains many of his eccentricities. I will try and tell you 
about it sometime — perhaps you may read it.” 

"I should so like to! But tell me, is Bertha becoming 
content? ” 

“Well, I hardly know; she is calm, as composed as a 
statue. Her father is very low; he asked them to send 
for me, not for any special purpose; it was a sick man’s 
restlessness, I suppose. Miss Warham will soon be an 


648 


A SLENDER CLUE 


orphan, and mistress of a large fortune— everything John 
Warham touched seems to have turned into money. I 
don’t know what she will do, but she is capable of a 
career of some kind; and I don’t think she will ever be 
content to be a mere society woman now. Susan and 
she seem strangely attached to each other. She told me, 
when I spoke to her of Susan’s faithfulness, good sense, 
and courage, that she looked upon Susan as her best 
friend now. and that wherever she went she would 
not part with her. I think Susan would like nothing 
better.” 

"Well, I have spoken to Kenneth about an idea of 
mine. When we go to New York I want to go and see 
Bertha. Do you think she would care to see me? ” 

‘‘I am sure of it; she is very grateful to you.” 

“Oh, by the way,” laughing a little, “what has become 
of Circus Fan?” 

“I am glad you asked that; she lives in a pretty cot- 
tage, and has a monthly income that enables her to live 
quite at her ease. Jernyngham behaved very generously, 
and he by no means turns his back upon his old friend, 
but — she will always be Circus Fan,” — laughing in his 
turn. “You should see her bonnets — and the pictures in 
her parlor.” 

“I will. I’ll make Ken take me there when we go to 
Chicago. Come now, I see some sharp glances turning 
this way; let me introduce you to the bride-to-be.” 

Once again it is the carnival season, and Mr. Henry 
Weston is again in New Orleans. He hardly hopes for 
such another sensation as that in which he had a part a 
year ago, for Mr. Weston is fond of sensations of an 
impersonal nature; but he has fallen in with a party 
much to his liking, and has become their self-appointed 
chaperon and expounder. They are English tourists of 


FINIS 


649 


the most pronounced type, and they are languidly bent 
upon seeing everything. 

In their tour of inspection they find themselves, one 
day, at police headquarters, and being evidently per- 
sonages of more or less importance, all the privileges of 
a visitor are extended to them by southern official 
courtesy. 

While one of their party is standing open-mouthed 
before a collection of faces in the rogues’ gallery, he 
utters an exclamation of astonishment that brings the 
others promptly to his side. 

"What’s it about, Cawney?" asks the last comer. 

"Upon my word! Look at this fellah; if he aint some- 
thin’ like that cad that made old Ralph Jermyn all that 
bother. Say, aint he, Eames?" 

"Ain’t he!" cries Eames. "Might be his own brother 
— clever rascal!" 

"That picture,” — it is Weston who is speaking — "just 
ask 7ne about him; Jermyn did you say? why that’s what 
he called himself." 

"Naw!" 

"Yes, sir. Poisoned his wife right here in this city a 
year ago Mardi Gras day. Then killed himself same way. 
Hypodermic route, you know— morphia. " 

"By Jove!" 

"Did you know him? who was he? what was his real 
name?” 

"Never had any, if it is the same fellah. ’Mystery about 
him, and all that; taken out of charity, they say, by one 
Foster Jermyn, sir Ralph Foster, he is now. Reared with 
his sons. Keen, polished, aristocratic-looking fellah. 
Forged on the old man, forged on one of his sons. Old 
man shipped him to America— oh! years ago; was a boy 
in jackets myself, but remember it well enough. Old 
man heard that he had committed forgery over here, and 


650 


A SLENDER CLUE 


been convicted. Come out, Weston, and tell us all about 
it.” 

As they go out and turn their faces toward the Hotel 
Victor, Weston is saying, within himself: 

“What a find! Pll get the particulars and write to 
Stanhope. ” 


THE END 






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illustrated by Henry Mayer. A book which has caused a deep sensa- 
tion all over Europe and America. 

THE CARTARET AFFAIR. ' 

By St. George Rathborne, author of “Dr. Jack.” with sixteen 
full page engravings by Henri”^ Mayer. “Endorsed by the press, 
welcomed by the reading public.” 


Readers of good literature are advised to procure Laird & Lee’S 
Publications, as they are printed in large type on excellent paper, pro- 
fusely illustrated, and bound in solid and attractive covers. 

SOLD BY ALL NEWSDEALERS AND UPON ALL TRAINS. OR SUPPLIED 

BY THE PUBLISHERS. 

LAIRD <& LEE, Chicago, 

AD.0.. 


The Library of Choice Fiction. 

Grows, Month after Month, in Deserved Popularity. We steadily add to it 

the most Prominent Works from Authors of World-wide Celebrity. 


AMONG OUR VERY LATEST** ARE found: 
DUCHESS ANNEHE. By Alexandre Dumas, Fils. 

This is one of thQ three great novels of Alexandre Dumas, fils, a com- 
panion to “Camille” and the “Clemenceau Case.” It is an. entirely new 
edition, from the pen of Max Maury, and with eight exceptionally fine full- 
page illustrations drawn ^ecially for this edition, by A. Leroy. Superb 
cover in four colors. Every detail new and striking. 

FRANCESCA da RIMINA. Translated from the German by “Kannida.’' 

This book by the celebrated German author, Ernst von Wildenbruch, is 
a sweet and poignant story of love and love’s troubles. It takes place in 
our time, amidst a picturesque population of officers and society people. 
Not a line of this beautiful book could offend the modesty of a young girl. 
Auguste Leroy has contributed eight tull-page original illustrations of real 
artistic value; also a cover in colors extremely attractive. 

\ MAN OF HONOR. By Octave Feuillet. 

Written (under the title of “ M. de Camors”) by the famous French 
academician. Octave Feuillet, the author of “A Farisian Bomance.” the 
“Romance of a Poor Young Man,” and other celebrated books. “A Man 
of Honor ” is acknowledged to be one of the ten greatest novels of the cen- 
tury. A portrait of the author, and eleven full-page illustrations from origi- 
nal etchings, make this book a most superb volume. 

A beautiful cover in colors. 

SAVED BY A DREAM. By Consuelo. 

Fully illustrated by Auguste Leroy and with an exquisite cover in four 
colors. This extraordinary book is a singular blending of imaginative 
power of the highest order and of striking facts interpreted by its light. 

THE MARRIAGE OF GERARD. By Andre Theuriet. 

Andr6 Theuriet, the author of “ Queen of the Woods,” and so many other 
exquisite stories of country life, is at the head or those French authors whoso 
books can ba placed, without reserve, into the hands of young people as well 
as older onss. His stories are captivating and filled with true pathos, and 
with the very finest descriptions of scenery and character. “ The Marriage 
of Gerard,” translated by Mary Lindsay Watkins, contains sixteen full-page 
illustrations, and a cover in several colors, designed expressly for this 
edition (the only translation extant) by Auguste Leroy. 

WHAT IT COST; OR, DEBTOR AND CREDITOR. By F. and I. E. Sullivan. 

A splendid story, capitally told, of bravery on the field and devotion at 
home. The heart beats with the noblest emotions while the eyes peruse this 
touching and enthralling narrative, based on fact. Five full-page illustra- 
tions and unique cover by Auguste Leroy. 

SAPPHO. By Alphonse Daudet. 

Another of the ten greatest novels ever written. We have secured from 
France a set of magnificent illustrations from original etchings, which 
make our edition the finest of all in an artistic as well as literary point of 
view. This is distinctly the only edit! on of “Sappho” published in English 
with these superb etchings. 

Readers of good literature are advised to procure Laird & Lee’s Pub- 
lications, as they are printed in large tj'pe on excellent paper, prof usely illus- 
trated, and bound in solid and attractive covers. 

SOLD BY ALL NEWSDEALERS AND UPON ALL TRAINS, OR SUPPLIED 
BY THE PUBLISHERS. 

L-TtlRD St L.EE, Ohickgo. 


AD. I. 


Recent Publications. 


v:9lich is I/ife. (Comme dans la vie.) By Albert Delpit 
Traitslated from the French by Alexina Loranger. Ulus- 
irated with eight half-tones from original drawings. 


“Such is Life,” by Albert Delpil. is an exceediugly clever story. As a psy- 
chical analysis of a remarkable character it is highly praiseworthy. Roland, 
the hero of the first ten chapters, and for whom the reader’s sympathies are 
thoroughly enlisted, commits an involuntary murder while struggling with a 
morphinemaniac. So far there seems to have been nothing blameworthy in his 
conduct. After this, however, he entirely alienates the reader’s sympathies, first 
by robbing the corpse of a large sum of money, and, secondly, by knowingly marry- 
ing the daughter of his victim. Much of the interest of this story is centered 
around this ill-omened marriage, and some very strong situations are developed. 
In these days of feeble plots, faulty construction and twaddling chatter, “Such is 
Life,” is to be welcomed with delight. The work is full of dramatic situations, 
and when once taken up is not likely to be put down till finished.” — Detroit News. 

“It is an interesting story of the modern French school.” — Omaha Bee. 

“The story is interesting and intensely so.” — Louisville Times, 

“The working of the hero’s mind is graphically portrayed and the whole is 
very interesting.” — New Orleans Picayune. 

“An exciting novel.” — Kansas City Journal. 

“It is a novel that can be taken up and read with a great deal of satisfaction, 
for it is bright, well written and exceedingly interesting.”— .Saw Francisco Call. 


Whom God Hath Joined. By Frank Cahoon. 

“It is the story of a beautiful woman, reared in an atmosphere of wealth, 
luxury and refinement, who gradually comes to maintain toward her husband, a 
physician, whom she, by her wealth, had raised to a position of prominence in the 
world, a coldness only saved from insolence by a ceremonious shading of polite- 
ness. Interest in the novel centers in the sympathy aud admiration for the beau 
tiful but neglected wife shown by one named Cellier: and the attentions paid by 
the heartless husband for an unprincipled and immoral young woman of wealth, 
whose fortune he seeks to possess and squander as he did that of the woman be 
wed. To do this, infidelity is charged. A separation follows, and soon after tbt 
cruel physician meets death at the hands of Cellier. The novel is well written.” 
— Pittsburg press. 

“A very pretty story that cannot fail to enteitain the reader,” — San Ft un- 
cisco Call. 

“It is well written.”— Aawjar City Times. 

“The story is dramatic and thrilling. It is a story of life which is not pleasant 
to look upon, but which we are are all compelled to think about. ’ — St. jouis 
Post-Dispatch 


LAIRD & LEE. PUBLISHERS, CHICAGO 


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The Library of Choice Fiction. 

— - — 1^1 - — • — 

The Rush Contitmes fof the Complete Works of this g r eat poptilat 
1 Writer of High-Class Detective Stories , 

I^AWRBNCB I/. IVYNCH, of the U. S. Secret Service. 

I 

SHADOWED BY THREE. 

' The famous book which made its author’s reputation known the 
j . w’orld over. 670 pages; 55 full-page engravin^^s. 

A SLENDER CLUE. 

Entirely new, just out of the author’s hands. Illustrated and 
with a specially designed cover, in colors. A modern story of ex- 
citing detective exploits. The equal of “Shadowed by Three.” 

MOINA; or, Against the Mighty. 

Now published for the first time. 520 pages with sixteen full 
page illustrations by Henry Mayer, Worthy of the great reputation 
of the author. Highly spoken of by the press, all over the 
country. 

MADELINE PAYNE, the Detective’s Daughter. 

There is a great deal of true emotional feeling in this captivating 
book. 453 pages; 45 full-page engravings. 

THE LOST WITNESS; or, The Mystery of Leah Paget. 

The incidents of this strong story are brought out with a gre«.t 
power of realization, 557 pages ; 16 full-page engravings. 

DANOEROUS GROUND; or. The Rival Detectives. 

A thrilling story of 426 pages, with 45 full-page illustrations. 
“A fascinating plot handled in a masterly fashion — not a dull page or 
line in it.” 

OUT OF A LABYRINTH. 

471 pages with 36 full-page illustrations. The Post writes: 
“The man who wrote ‘Dangerous Ground’ could not write a tame 
book if he tried !” 

THE DIAMOND COTERIE. 

557 pages and 47 full-page illustrations. A fully organized gang 
of malefactors with a cunning ex-detective at is head, are “ run 
down” by an officer of uncommon skill and undaunted bravery. 
Ready October, 1891. 

A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY; or. The Outlaws of the Rockies. 

600 pages with 36 full-page illustrations. The tale unfolds itself 
among the reckless adventurers who ruled the Rocky Movintains be- 
fore the creation of the Pacific K. K. Ready November, 1891. 


Readers of good literature are advised to procure Daird & Dee’s 
Publications, as they are printed in large type on excellent paper, pro- 
fusely illustrated, and bound in solid and attractive Covers. 

SOLD BY ALL NEWSDEALERS AND UPON ALL TRAINS, OR SUPPLIED 

BY THE PUBLISHERS. 

LAIRD LEE, Oh/CAGO. 

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